


A Matter of Life and Death

by HolRose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A little nod to Miltonian mingling, Angel Singing, Angel rebellion, Angel/Demon Relationship, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aspec Friendly, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Humanity (Good Omens), Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley Heavenly fan club, Body Swap, Canon-typical alcohol abuse, Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, Demisexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Former Cherub Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gabriel is a dick, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), It's all about the love, M/M, Michael is the worst, Mild Angst, Multi, Nervous Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Temporary Amnesia, There are dogs in Heaven, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 141,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose
Summary: It is the day after the world didn't end and our heroes have failed, yet again, to tell each other how they feel. Before they get a chance to do so, the agents of Heaven and Hell come to take their revenge working on the principle that what they can't kill, they can still punish. Aziraphale finds himself destined to rejoin his Regiment and then finds himself on trial, where he is forced to tell the whole of Heaven how he feels about a certain demon. Meanwhile, Crowley is back on Earth, with no memory of his companion of 6000 years. Will our favourite supernatural duo manage to get back together? With the help of some very determined cherubs, and a fan club cast of thousands, there are beings up there who want to help them try.COMPLETE.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Dagon (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens)
Comments: 322
Kudos: 149
Collections: Good Omens Amnesia Fics, Tip Top Stories





	1. I've loved him always, right up to the end

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story based on some of the concepts of the 1947 film ‘A Matter of a Life and Death’ (released in the US as ‘Stairway to Heaven’), directed by Powell and Pressburger. It isn't a crossover, which is why it isn't tagged as such. There will be loads of plot, and lots of humour as well as a sprinkling of memories and some poetry. Please excuse British spelling and humour and a general loathing of right-wing politics and practitioners.
> 
> The fic is aspec friendly. I don't specify them as ace, leaving that up to the reader but there is no smut, only a little kissing and a few hugs.
> 
> Rated teen and up purely for Crowley's language.
> 
> Thanks go to my excellent Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) who has been a fantastic support and inspiration to me.
> 
> Also to my Friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) who have been fabulous in their support and good humour.
> 
> Kudos and comments make me very happy, especially now I am stuck scribbling away in isolation, do let me know if you are enjoying this, and please be kind.

Imagine the universe, take everything you know or you think you know about it, close your eyes and imagine…thousands of suns, millions of stars separated by immense distances…

Big, isn’t it?

There is so much that we know now, about Creation, so much again that we think may be true, and so much that even the most gifted of human minds, a Feynman, or a Hawking, cannot possibly know. The Universe is vast and complex, the knowing of it loops around through the weirder outreaches of physics, through quantum theory to the metaphysical; from maths to philosophy and beyond that to stranger lands of the imagination. It’s all a bit ineffable, really.

Then there are the other realms, part of the Universe that God created all those millennia ago, and yet nothing we can see for ourselves with our human eyes. Follow Armstrong or Gagarin to the stars and you will never see Heaven or the face of God. In fact it is only loosely speaking that the realm of God and Her Angels can even be regarded as ‘up’, at all. It is true, however, that those angels did set the stars in the sky, back In The Beginning, when everything was made of love and all was simple and easily understood.

Were we able to climb to Heaven without going through the inconvenient and often messily painful process of dying, we would have to travel between dimensions, slipping subtly past and through the starstuff that makes up our corporeal realm and into another world. A world populated by ethereal beings that is at once both within and without our own physical realm and one even stranger and more remarkable than our own dear planet Earth. This place, that we call Heaven, has its own rules and customs, and these are strict and cannot be circumnavigated. Those in charge would say that It Is Written. This itself is not strictly true, but those strictures in place have been implemented and are defended as if it is, by a stern bureaucracy that brooks no dissent, even if by doing so it drifts further away from the first intentions of the Great Maker with each passing day.

If it were possible to pass through to this place, you would see a singular sight, just below the empyrean, where sits the Throne of God, empty now time out of mind. A lonely angel flies in a strict pattern, up and down, turning and swooping on wings against which the starlight is reflected, even though he his, strictly speaking, in a dimension parallel to the stars that we can see. If it were possible to draw close to him, you would be able to hear his sweet voice speaking as he drills, this reluctant celestial soldier:

_I wandered lonely as a cloud_

_That floats on high o’er vales and hills,_

_When all at once I saw a crowd,_

_A host of golden daffodils…_

In order to understand this scene, we must go back some considerable time and fall away from this place, slipping between realities and moving back in time. Stay with me and imagine all those expensive special effects that you are so damned good at when you are reading, you clever person, you.

***

Ah, here we are, we’re back in the Universe again, can you feel it’s slow expansion? Probably not, and that’s a good thing for the sake of our mental health, there’s only so much of that sort of thing anyone can stand. We’re getting nearer home now…

Here’s the Moon, our Moon, in the first quarter. And here’s the Earth, our Earth, moving, spinning stately in its space, connected to all things by the forces that govern our solar system, part of the pattern, part of the Universe.

Reassuring, isn’t it, to see it there?

We need to look after it, each of us, do the best we can, don’t we?

Let us move in closer, through the stratosphere, swooping down through cloud to skim the teaming oceans and observe the shifting patterns of light and dark between time zones. Up to the northern hemisphere, see the concentration of lights over Europe as humankind goes about its business, oblivious to the catastrophe of not being that so nearly befell it one Saturday in August. Across to a funny shaped little group of islands. Homing in to the south east of the main landmass, where the concentration of illumination is thickened to a blur. Soaring down to the corner of one street where muted lamplight in an old shop still gleams into the yellow sodium glow of the streets around it, despite the lateness of the hour.

It is night over London, the night of the Sunday after the world didn’t end, and the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden and occasional rare book dealer is sitting in his office in Soho, looking at a screen and thinking about the world and his place in it. Aziraphale thinks a great deal, he is a thoughtful entity, needing to understand the consequences of his actions before he commits himself to anything. The events of the past week have been intense for him, involving as they did the aversion of Armageddon and its concomitant war between the opposing forces of Heaven and Hell alongside the love of his life and some extraordinarily brave human beings. Together, this group of people, working with the Boy Antichrist, who, after everything, had come down firmly on the side of humanity, had saved the world. Aziraphale, an angel, had stood side by side with Crowley, a demon, and provided the Archangel Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub of Hell with a point of information that had stopped them in their tracks and elicited a look of confusion and puzzlement on their faces that neither angel nor demon had ever seen before. Aziraphale had even, God help him, given his former Line Manager a cheeky little wave alongside the most sarcastic smile he thought he had ever manifested.

After this, there had been further shocks involving receiving the news that his beloved bookshop had been immolated and having his hand taken gently and held, long fingers woven between his own softer, shorter ones, on an Oxford County omnibus for a good hour or so by the aforementioned love of his life. Subsequent events had proved to be even more remarkable. A body swap with a demon and a trip to Hell where he had mustered as much courage as he could to do Crowley justice in elan and swagger as he submitted to the fate that would have killed his opposite number and his soulmate.

The result of this happening to one thoughtful and rather stoical angel all within the space of one week had been a profound sense of dislocation. He had been granted something that he had agonised over and wanted for millennia, namely a clearer understanding that his affection for Crowley, the demon he had loved for the best part of two thousand years (possibly longer, it was difficult to tell when the feeling took root in his heart and would not be gainsaid by his habitual fear that the discovery of their connection would guarantee the destruction of both of them) was reciprocated in some measure. There was also a kind of epiphany concerning his status with the Heavenly Host, or at least those of them that could be said to be represented by the quartet of Archangels who had organised what was intended to be his execution by hellfire in the lonely white halls of Heaven’s Executive Office Suite.

The two issues represented by these occurrences were those that had been a constant bass note of preoccupation over his time on earth since he could remember thinking about anything. His love for his opposite number on Earth and his status as a rather unsatisfactory angel, at least as far as Gabriel appeared to be concerned. His private views on his own competency were very much that he did his best and that he loved everyone and everything as much as he was capable of and acted accordingly. If this happened to include one Serpent of Eden, then so be it. It didn’t make him a bad person and he still felt the light and love of God, something for which he was continually grateful.

Once the immediate crisis of the Apocalypse and final battle between Heaven and Hell had been averted, Aziraphale’s first consideration had been for Crowley and how he was feeling. The linking of their hands on the service bus to Oxford (via Mayfair) had been an unspoken, mutual decision and one that was simultaneously the kindest touch that Aziraphale could ever remember receiving. It had been both warm and exhilarating and the angel believed that the intensity of the experience could only mean that the love he felt was matched by a similar emotion in his former adversary. With their typical reticence, nothing had been explicitly stated, the need at the time had been for a plan to avoid mutual extinction by the organisations with which they had so recently been affiliated, and, on Crowley’s part at least, the need for sleep. The force of will required to maintain a burning vehicle through the hellfire ring of the M25 and on into the Oxfordshire countryside plus the demonic miracle of stopping time had really, as the humans put it, taken it out of him.The demon was soot streaked and exhausted and Aziraphale did not want to bother him with his feelings at that point. Consequently, after they had agreed on the exchange of corporations, Crowley had retired to his bedroom to sleep.

Aziraphale had spent the night sitting up on the world’s most uncomfortable sofa, putting on his own personal three act play on the theme of anxiety. Starting with an exposition of worrying, then a well-argued second section of apprehension, finally rounding it off with a recapitulation of the major themes of the work in a coda of masterly fretting, he went over the plan and all the variations of possible outcomes before dawn streaked the London sky with apricot and peach. Crowley had emerged, tense and tightly coiled and had taken his hand again so that they could enact the strange mingling that left them in each other’s fleshly forms. Then it was time to leave and make their separate ways to their rendezvous at St James’ Park. There had been a moment just before they parted company when their eyes had met, strange in their exchanged corporations, and a silent message of love and support had passed between them, fortifying the angel for what lay ahead of him.

Seeing Crowley again, attempting his usual sprawl on the Berkley Square park bench in the angel’s shorter, broader body, and failing rather, had been one of the best moments of his life. Lunch at the Ritz was a dream; champagne and toasts to the world and each other. One bottle of wine had turned to two, then three as they ate and talked, exchanging their accounts of how they had made their way to Tadfield and laughing at the fact that they had both been paying Shadwell a retainer for his dubious services. Leaving the luxurious environs of the hotel, they had walked through the summer night back to the bookshop. At one point, Aziraphale had sworn he could hear a nightingale singing and had stilled Crowley with a hand laid on his arm, saying ‘Listen’ as the trills and churrs of the song wavered briefly above the traffic noise. They had linked arms after that and continued on their way, walking quietly, both lost in thought.

Once they reached Soho, and the safety of their accustomed places in the bookshop and more wine had been poured, the evening had become rather manic. They had both wanted to hear about what had befallen the other during their respective ordeals in Heaven and Hell. There appeared to be an unspoken desire on both of their parts to play down the full horror of what had been attempted so as not to break the happy mood that had sparkled between them since they had been reunited.

Aziraphale elaborated on his actions, describing the faces of the assembled demons once he started sprinkling and flicking holy water around the bath where he had lain, proudly assuming an air as dashing and debonair as he thought Crowley would have mustered when facing down his former work associates. Crowley for his part had made Aziraphale laugh by describing the look on Gabriel’s face when he breathed a gout of hellfire across at the group of archangels. Crowley's palpable anger at the lack of trial granted the angel and at Gabriel’s words when he bade Aziraphale hasten to his death, coupled with the presence of extraordinary quantities of alcohol in the angel’s system by this time had served to cushion the inevitable blow to his feelings that the action of his heavenly siblings was bound to inflict. Aziraphale was accustomed to shelving his emotions for future examination. He was careful to take the opportunity of laughing at the string of invective that Crowley produced against all four of God’s highest celestial beings to move on to other topics without thinking too closely about the way in which he had been treated over the previous few days by his Heavenly family.

The rest of the night was given over to drunken exuberance. Crowley took it upon himself to give Aziraphale a crash course in inventive swearing after being delighted with the idea of an angel ascending to Heaven with the word ‘fuck’ on his lips. Aziraphale learned all sorts of creative turns of phrase. He thought his favourite was probably ‘cockwomble’ although ‘spunktrumpet’ ran it a close second. Crowley laughed so hard at hearing Aziraphale’s precise voice uttering these outpourings with his usual beautiful enunciation, he thought he was going to be sick at one point. Aziraphale in his turn was so amused at the YouTube video of the song. ‘I’ve got no fucks left to give’ rendered by a young man with the most splendid beard, that he laughed so much he fell off the sofa, where he had joined Crowley to look at memes on his phone. The evening ended with Crowley falling asleep draped over Aziraphale’s side, his fiery head tucked into the angel’s shoulder and a slim, black clad leg draped over his hip. Aziraphale was happy, in a bubble of high spirits and extreme intoxication and, despite himself, he drifted to sleep too, head falling back onto the cushion wedged in behind him against the arm of the lumpy old leather sofa.

***

Aziraphale woke first, head aching from the quantities of wine he had imbibed the previous evening and forgotten to purge from his system owing to being too wasted to care. For that first moment of consciousness, he had no memory of where he was at all, not being used to sleep. Gradually some of what had happened the previous day returned to him. Then, as he emerged more fully from his sleepy state, he became aware of the delightful warm weight of sleeping demon on his chest and bent his head slightly, despite the throb of pain this elicited, and buried his nose in the shock of slightly sooty smelling red hair that brushed his chin and neck.

_“Darling Crowley,”_ he breathed quietly into the soft carmine strands, placing the ghost of a kiss there, intent on not waking the demon but unable to prevent himself from making that small show of affection. Sensing no response, he gently levitated Crowley’s sleeping form and edged out from beneath him, placing a cushion under his head and drawing the blanket draped over the back of the sofa over him to keep him warm. Unsteadily, he made his way into the small kitchen at the back of the shop, intent on some reviving tea for himself and to start some coffee for when Crowley eventually woke. A small miracle took care of the worst effects of the residual alcohol in this system and soon he was sitting breathing in the fragrant steam from his silver oolong while he waited for the water to huff its way through the little octagonal espresso maker on his stove top. Crowley liked proper coffee and he liked it strong. He left the little cup on the table next to the sleeping demon and wandered into the shop with his tea, walking around the shelves, noting the new volumes gifted to him by Adam. Richmal Crompton, W.E. Johns, Kenneth Graham. The boy had quite a traditional taste in children’s literature, or perhaps these were the type of books he thought Aziraphale would value. Everyone had the opinion of him that he was out of time, it seemed.

Noises from the back shop indicated that Crowley was awake. There was groaning and muttering and then a short silence as coffee was drunk and hangover banished. When he emerged, looking for the angel, he appeared a little unfocused. It was awkward, both hesitating over what to say to each other now that everything was over. It was the first day of the rest of their lives and neither of them knew quite what to do with that fact, nor how to approach the other for what they needed. In this lacuna of ability to process, both reverted to previous habits, Crowley volunteering that he should go and water his plants, Aziraphale respondingin a small voice that perhaps he should think about opening the shop. So they bade each other farewell in the usual way, promising to keep in touch and call if anything unusual presented itself and immediately each found themselves without the company of the other, despite not really knowing how such a lamentable state of affairs could possibly have come about. Crowley walked back to Mayfair, his plants and the newly restored Bentley and Aziraphale sat down heavily in his chair and wondered why the hell he could never just ask for what he wanted.

The distress crept over him in increments as he continued to sit, thinking. The realities of what had happened began to assert themselves in his mind, his thoughts confusing and contrary. He went to his ancient computer and switched it on, and being an obedient machine, it dutifully grunted to life, wheezing and sizzling as it went through the necessary commands. In actuality, the chip had burnt out about twenty years previously, the whole thing now operated by utilising the not inconsiderable power of Aziraphale’s Grace, connecting to the Internet and the pages that he required only because that was what he expected of it. It hadn’t been plugged in since around 1992 but worked adequately for his needs and he would only tut and roll his eyes when Crowley commented on what a museum piece it was, insisting that it was quite good enough for his accounts, thank you very much.

He spent a considerable time on Google Earth just looking at pictures of the world. He gazed at beautiful photographs of landscapes all over the planet, then searched randomly for images of all the creatures that teamed across the countries of the globe, animals, fish, birds, the extraordinary variety of life on Earth. As he browsed and marvelled at how excellent humans were at photography his anger grew. Horror crawled up his spine and spread a prickling web of feeling across his scalp, his human form responding to his feelings in a human, rather than an angelic, way. He had spent six thousand years caring for all of this and they had wanted to destroy the whole lot, obliterate it from existence. Worst of all, he was supposed to be one of them. It came upon him forcibly that he had barely recognised his siblings when he had seen them recently. He could remember times when they had felt the same as him, and, less clearly, the time Before, when he had been somewhat different to what he was now. But remembering their faces as he had seen them recently, he felt no tug of love and kinship with them. Where had the kindness gone? Michael had always been strong, brilliant, awe inspiring, but when had she become cold and spiteful, and as for Gabriel, at what point had he become an insufferable arsehole? Had this been going on for millennia and he just hadn’t noticed, wrapped up in dogma to avoid dealing with the dissonance of a duplicity that had become second nature to him?

Aziraphale had grown accustomed to being largely left alone by his heavenly cohort. Over the years he had seen Gabriel a handful of times and dutifully submitted his reports when required but other than that, they had pretty much left him to get on with it. This had been what had allowed his Arrangement with Crowley to flourish but it had also condemned him to almost constant isolation. Of course Crowley had rescued him a few times from danger of discorporation and he had enjoyed the demon’s company when they met up on various occasions, but most of the time he spent performing his duties as an Angel of The Lord on Earth, he was entirely alone.All the joy, the pain, the stress, discomfort, horror and ecstasy of his life was something that was never shared with any other angel. At some level, he had come to realise that unless he did something wrong, or was deemed frivolous with his miracles, they just didn’t care about him.

In response to this and through necessity, he had developed an abiding habit of self reliance. Throughout it all though, he had been steadfast in consistently cleaving to the idea that he was part of some sort of greater good and that his true home remained with the rest of the Host in Heaven. Recent events had exposed this perception for the illusion that it had become. His vague feelings of inadequacy had been reinforced by the reception he had received when he had tried to persuade his superiors of his plan to avert the war.

As he sat there, images of his siblings passed through his mind, the wrongness of it all adding to his distress. The condescending look in their eyes, and the reluctant patter of their applause while he stood nervously in front of them in that cold hallway, his hands twisting together at his back. Gabriel’s patronising feint at his stomach in the park. The anger and contempt in their faces as they crowded him against the wall and assaulted him, their hard words hurting him in more ways than any damage caused to his physical form. The careless dismissal of his concerns by the Metatron as he made his final, desperate appeal to be heard by the highest authority. He had been a fool in his loyalties, he realised. It became more and more obvious to him as he sat and looked at images of the world that his only ally was the one person he had been told was his enemy. The only person he had ever shared any meaningful part of his life with was his supposed adversary, Crowley.

And he loved, and he loved, and he loved.

And he wept for the world and for himself and all his frailties.

And remembered.

He couldn’t stop seeing Crowley’s face and the heart wrenching expression on it as he had stood over him with that ancient sword raised in his hand. For just one moment they had both realised that this was what it would come to if they were to fail. And he cringed at the memory of his smug tones telling Crowley confidently on a park bench, eleven years ago, how ‘lovely’ everything was going to be ‘when’ Heaven won the war. What a self-righteous prick he had been, spilling out the party line without thinking at all deeply about what it really meant. How he would have been forced to bear arms and kill the one being in all creation that he loved the most. And he knew now in his heart of hearts that the angels in charge would undoubtedly have taken a special pleasure in making him kill Crowley, just as they had evidently relished the notion of putting him to death without a trial. He was nothing like them anymore.

These ruminations led him to the overwhelming question: what am I? If he was no longer like his siblings and had no place in Heaven, what could he possibly be now? He had no answer, all of the sureties he had held dear over his long life had been rudely swept away over a few days. The only thing he was certain of was his deep and abiding love for the world and for Crowley.

He left the computer and poured himself a stiff measure of Highland Park, repairing to his usual chair to think some more, anxiety mounting in him as his thoughts spiralled. He had to tell Crowley how he felt, he knew that, but he was in no fit state to offer abiding love or any sort of relationship to Crowley in this condition, he owed the demon so much more than that. He needed to think, to sort himself out, and if he was to do this, he would deal with it in the manner in which he had dealt with all the other crises he had endured over his time on the Earth, by thinking things through on his own.

It would doubtless have been better for him had he chosen to share his grief with Crowley, who would have listened and understood, offering the comfort that he always held in readiness for his angel. Aziraphale did not believe that he deserved this, however. He wished to give himself only when he felt he was worthy. He had caused enough damage over the previous few days through the hurtful lies spoken to Crowley in the grip of fear for both of their lives. He could not think of the times he had spoken harsh words at the bandstand in Battersea Park or in the street near the bookshop without experiencing a sharp pain and sense of deep and abiding shame. He needed time to think, reorientate himself and work on an appropriate form of words to both apologise for the way he had been and tell Crowley just how he felt. It was possible that Crowley would not welcome what he had to say anyway, and he had to prepare himself for that also. So he resisted any impulse he felt to seek Crowley out and spill out his feelings and clung to what he knew best: dealing with his emotions alone.

One thing he would allow himself though. He knew how anxious and keyed up Crowley could become and he was determined both to be more mindful of the demon’s sensitivities and never to lie to him again, either by commission or omission. He would call him, explain he needed some time and make arrangements to see him for a meal or drinks in a couple of days. He did not want Crowley to feel rejected or play the old game he had previously indulged himself in of leaving it up to the demon to arrange each and every meeting that they had in the rather annoyingly, he thought to himself, coy way in which he had behaved previously, as if by doing so he was not fully participating in whatever their relationship had previously been. It was to be honesty at all times from now on, and he hoped that in this way he could make things better.

He went to his ancient bakelite telephone and dialled the familiar number, hearing Crowley’s voice and beginning to speak, nervousness making his voice come out at a higher pitch than he would have liked. The familiar phrases followed by an electronic tone alerted him to the fact that he was speaking to the annoying answering machine, again, so he cleared his throat and left the message that he had formulated in his mind.

It was just as he was placing the receiver back on its cradle that they came for him.


	2. We’ve had it, and I’d rather jump than fry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley returns home and reflects on what had just happened. Then something odd happens in his living room...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) for all the amazing help and encouragement.
> 
> Also to my friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) for all of their support and encouragement. Couldn't do it without you all!
> 
> Keep well everyone!

The answering machine clicked off just as Crowley skidded into the room. He had heard the last couple of words of the angel’s message but did not have time to grab the phone before the call was over. After a walk back to Mayfair filled with muttered imprecations at himself for not taking any of the chances that had presented themselves to make some sort of move to declare his feelings, he had taken a much-needed shower, thrown on his favourite and softest pair of silk pyjamas and buried himself under the comfort of his Hungarian goose down duvet. He had consequently been asleep when the phone rang.

Sleeping in the bookshop half draped over Aziraphale had been both wonderful and terrifying, what it hadn’t been was restful, exactly. He had been awake for far longer than he had allowed Aziraphale to know about, just lying there enjoying the feeling of being wrapped around the angel’s comforting warmth. The whispered endearment and feeling of the angel’s lips brushing his hair had caused him to freeze, hardly breathing, and instead of acknowledging Aziraphale’s tentative overture, he had continued to feign sleep, incapable of formulating an adequate response to what was possibly being offered. The complex feelings this had engendered in him had further stultified him once he had risen and seen the coffee left for him, a kind gesture that made him feel, if anything, more incapable of any adequate response. After that, things had played out as they usually did, his habitual reticence reasserting itself as he said a subdued good bye and walked away from Aziraphale, again.

Now the angel had phoned, and he had missed it, forcing Aziraphale to leave a message, something he knew he disliked. He pushed the play button and perched on the edge of his desk to listen to what the angel had to say, dreading whatever pronouncement it was that Aziraphale felt required a phone call after having seen him so recently. He was tense, and as the halting voice began to speak, his heart sank. It seemed initially like it was shaping up to be some version of that old chestnut, ‘it’s not you, it’s me’. That had, in fact, been one of Crowley’s. He’d only mentioned it in passing when drunk to Aeneas in Carthage that time and that really hadn’t ended at all well. He still felt vaguely guilty about what had happened afterwards. Since then, it had become the go-to excuse for getting out of a romantic entanglement by those moral cowards who believed it lent their mendacity a conscience-salving air of self sacrifice. Crowley regretted the whole thing, if he was honest. As he listened, he realised that this wasn’t, in fact, what Aziraphale was trying to say at all:

“ _…it’s all been, well, a little much to take in…. just a couple of days…. need time to think…..I didn’t want you worrying….see you very soon….thank you, for everything…”_

And then the valediction, spoken in a lower tone, the voice breaking a little on his name:

“… _Crow-_ ley, _”_ another hesitation and an audible intake of breath “ _…darling, please do take care, I shall see yousoon, I promise, please don’t worry about anything, I shall be alright, I just need some time…”_

There it was again, _darling._ He had been ‘my dear’ and variations on that for a very long time now, but this was new. Hearing it lifted Crowley’s spirits and gave him hope that perhaps this thing between them was deepening in some way and that Aziraphale might just reciprocate his feelings. The sensation of the angel’s hand in his on the bus the previous evening had been wonderful.There was an eagerness there, evinced by the frequency with which Aziraphale had given his hand a little squeeze generating small rushes of affection between them, that Crowley had felt with a growing pleasure. He had wondered at the time if Aziraphale was as touch starved as he was, it certainly seemed that way.

Crowley knew Aziraphale well enough to understand that this call represented his attempt to do the right thing and spare his feelings. It didn’t stop him worrying entirely, he still wrestled with the familiar emotions he had been dealing with for thousands of years now: that he was wrecked with love for someone who could never possibly return his devotion, but who remained connected with him in a way that would not be denied, condemning him to an eternity weltering in the pain of unrequited love. In the past, Aziraphale had unwittingly been the master of exquisite torture, pulling him in only to push him away again and again, genuinely frightened for both of their lives but enamoured enough of his company to keep returning to him over and over. They were like the twin suns of Alpha Centauri, locked in an eternal orbit around each other never able to break away from the magnetic attraction that kept them together in their association through the centuries. This wasn’t that though, this felt like a newmore considerate approach on the part of the angel, and Crowley hoped that it was a good omen for the future.

Aziraphale’s voice though, it told Crowley more than the simple words he had used to explain what he wanted. Crowley was intimately acquainted with every tonal nuance of the angel’s speaking voice, and knew what each one of them meant. The self-righteous tone that he took when he attempted to justify something that Crowley knew he was actually uncertain about, the genuine note of happiness when he talked about doing something unambiguously good, the pure joy that sometimes accompanied the utterance of his own name that told the demon that his friend was simply pleased to see him after a long absence. He knew them all. The voice that had left the message was also one he knew well, the small, subdued one that Aziraphale spoke with every time he returned from meetings with his superiors or was visited by them on Earth.

Crowley suspected that whatever was troubling Aziraphale was connected with how he had been treated recently by his so-called angelic brethren, alongside what Crowley had been forced to tell him of his time in Heaven standing in for the angel. Crowley had been furious on Aziraphale’s behalfat the lack of a trial. He had tried his very best to behave with the magnanimity that he thought the angel would show when he spoke with Gabriel. He had then summoned up his best fearless attitude, setting his face in a stony expression as he sat, bound to the chair they had pushed him into. It appeared to have worked if Eric’s face was anything to go by when he had chosen not to strike the angel after asking for the chance to do so, before scampering away back to Hell. It was only after Gabriel made his hateful request that Crowley had lost a little of his control and breathed a gout of hellfire at the odious trio standing smugly in front of him waiting for Aziraphale to burn to death. After the jokes and high good humour of the previous evening, Aziraphale had now had some time to think, and it would seem that the inevitable emotional backlash was affecting him.

Crowley ached for him, wishing he had thought to come to him and share his grief. He had seen Aziraphale similarly upset before. One time, in the 1980s, he had visited the bookshop, worried at Aziraphale’s continued absence from London for longer than usual, only to find him sitting disconsolately at his desk with a pile of paperwork in front of him. It turned out that he had just returned from his latest performance review. Gabriel loved these benchmarking exercises, adopting ridiculous jargon and changing the format of his approach to the procedure a bewildering number of times, the stupid terminology he insisted on using only serving to undermine and distress Aziraphale. On this occasion, Aziraphale had told him wearily that what had previously been Personal Review and Development was now Personal Growth and Development and that there were a plethora of new forms to complete. Aziraphale had already been on his second gin when Crowley arrived and had shared his despair with his friend, leaning over and stabbing his finger at the paper in his hand as he showed it to the demon:

“I have to choose three _behaviours_ that I have exhibited over the last one hundred years and then state how these fit in with this set of _key strategic objectives_ and Heaven’s _mission statement_ , whatever the blazes that is” he had wailed, “look at them Crowley, I don’t even understand what most of them _mean_!”

Gabriel had apparently talked about ‘creating more synergy’ amongst the various teams and indicated that it was incumbent upon Aziraphale to ‘utilise and leverage his core competencies to maximise his traction in the verticals’. This mutilation of the language alone had made Aziraphale miserable. He had completed his forms as best he could, leaving out any egregious abuse of grammar and syntax, and gone back for his second meeting, returning subdued, his shoulders slumped, his voice a small, crushed version of its usual sweetness.

There had been no opportunity for the angel to speak about what he had actually been doing: working in the capital’s hospital wards during the AIDS crisis, holding the hands of broken men and boys, many entirely abandoned by their friends and families, talking softly to them, easing their pain, distributing love. Out on the streets in Wales, Scotland and the North of England with striking miners and their valiant wives and girlfriends. Sitting with the homeless in Thatcher’s Britain, giving comfort, doing what he was capable of doing. Gabriel wasn't interested in specifics, he told Aziraphale, cutting through his attempt at explaining his activities to reprimand him for ‘frivolous’ miracles, telling him that working at a personal level was not a good use of his time or powers and that he should ‘up his game’ or risk a written warning. Crowley had wanted to take him in his arms and tell him that he was the best person he knew, but he couldn’t do that, so he contented himself with swearing a lot and mockingly spouting more made-up bureaucratic bollocks to bring a smile to his angel’s face again.

All he wanted to do now was to be allowed to love Aziraphale. To be near him, wake with him every morning, hold that strong, sturdy body close to his own, run his fingers through his linen-white curls, look into those pretty blue eyes, stroke those soft cheeks and claim the angel’s mouth with his own and taste his sweetness. He wanted so much, sometimes he thought he would go mad with wanting.

He listened to the message again and then swung his legs to the floor and sauntered through to where his plants were, lifting the plastic spray bottle and misting any that looked in need of it. He walked to where his roses grew. Earth Angel roses, his delight, kept blooming all year round by a stream of demonic energy. He had discovered them in 2003 and been enchanted by them, everything about them reminded him of Aziraphale. They were an old-fashioned shape, reminiscent of a peony, their colour the delicate pink of an angel’s blush in the centre fading to almost bone white at the outer petals, and the fragrance:

_“…the first impression is of lemon, and sparkles like a fine note of champagne, then presents a hint of elderflower and a discreet top note of ripe raspberries. Freshness dominates the heart note. An airy impression of fresh apples in the garden after a summer rain resides in the finish.”_

Having them in his flat made him happy, and he often sat near them, letting the fragrance wash over him, dreaming of another garden and the first gifts of an uncertain, shy smile, the protective arch of a blinding white wing above him.

The morning of their ordeals, he had sought the angel after he woke from his sleep and had found him by the flowers. Crowley had stood quietly in the doorway of the garden room to watch him. Stooping slightly, Aziraphale had taken a bloom in his hand, delicately cupping it in his fingers and raising it to his face, closing his eyes as he inhaled, the tip of his nose in the centre of the flower, his cupid bow lips just brushing the outer petals as he hummed his appreciation of the scent. He had straightened up when he had realised that Crowley was standing close by and their eyes had met, the angel’s slightly glassy and red-rimmed. He had spoken quietly, starting in what sounded like the middle of a sentence as if he was cutting into his own thoughts, his voice low and strained:

“It will work, won’t it, my dear?” there had been a pause, and the voice had cracked a little, as if it was painful to speak, “I don’t want to... I’m not ready… there’s still so much I want to _do_ , Crowley.”

There was a plea there. It had been Aziraphale’s plan to swap corporations, working from the prophecy he had received, but now he was faltering, looking to Crowley for reassurance and the strength to go on. Crowley had been frightened himself, but he had held his face steady, raised eyebrows and set mouth being the only indications of disquiet, and he had given his angel what he needed:

“Course it will, angel, we can’t fail. We’ll fool those idiots and then we’ll be free. Don’t worry Aziraphale, I’ll do my very best for you and I know you’ll do me proud. Come on, now, give me your hand.”

They had clasped their hands together once more, he had felt the soft weight of Aziraphale’s palm for a moment and then he was rushing forward to meet the white heat of the angel’s true form with the tenebrous column of fire that was his own. The two flames met, their luminescence yearning for each other for a moment as they passed, the longing to join together almost overwhelming as their original incarnations expressed all the deep devotion that they held for one another. Then he had gritted his metaphorical teeth and moved on, brushing the angel’s grace with his own dark energy, and found himself centred in the sweet gravity of Aziraphale’s body.

He walked to the roses, finding the bloom that Aziraphale had enjoyed so much and raised it to his own lips, kissing the outer petals where the angel’s mouth had rested briefly. He had always been there for Aziraphale when he could through threats of discorporation and in times of stress, and he wasn’t going to let him down now. He would give him all the time he needed and be there for him whenever he felt ready to greet the world again.

A distorted sizzling noise of static disturbed his reverie, and he turned his head in the direction of the main room of the flat where it appeared to be coming from. It sounded like the usual preamble to a message from Hell coming through on his wall-mounted television screen. He straightened from the rose bushes and started walking soundlessly on his scaly feet towards the source of the sound. Had he left the television on standby? That was a grave error. He wished fleetingly that he had unplugged the, literally, damned thing. The noise increased in volume as he sidled up to the doorway of the room in question and placed his eye to the space near the hinge of the half open door. The screen was lit but there was no image there, only the snow of lost reception, a steady fizzing noise coming from the device’s surround-sound speakers. He ventured into the room with the intention of turning the wretched machine off when the sound increased in pitch, becoming a steady whine and then a roar. The black and white static on the screen turned red and became flames for a moment, there was an overwhelming stench of sulphur and the shape of two figures coalesced out of the vermillion nightmare that the screen had become. He watched in horror as the diminutive figure of Lord Beelzebub accompanied by a shambling tow-headed shape that could only be Duke Hastur, stepped through the screen of his television and into his living room, the clatter of their shoes and boots echoing ominously in the quiet of the darkened space.

Crowley had nowhere to go. He thought of running for a second but realised that it was pointless. He might have been able to outwit Hastur, who wasn’t the brightest, given that his brain was mostly maggots, but Beelzebub was another thing entirely. Insanely powerful, hugely intelligent and endlessly resourceful, he didn’t really stand a chance against them. He decided that his only recourse was to brazen things out and hope for a lucky break, an approach that had worked for him all of his long life up until now.

“What the fuck are you two doing here? You agreed to leave me alone didn’t you? Or are you wanting another soaking with the good stuff?” Crowley growled, extending his arm andbrandishing the plant mister bottle towards them from his outstretched fingers hooked around its nozzle. Beelzebub waved their hand and the bottle with its contents simply ceased to be, plastic and water reduced to the atoms they were constituted of by the huge wrath of a Prince of Hell. Hastur flinched and jumped to one side, raising his armand cringing in an attempt to to ward-of any droplets that might come his way. He backed away and stood against the wall at the other side of the room from Crowley, his scowling face twitching and jumping as his black eyes remained on his Prince.

“Demon Crowley, Szzerpent of Eden,” Beelzebub’s voice had its usual flat, uninterested tone but there was a sense of barely restrained fury in the air around them, even if their expression was one of terminal ennui,

“I bring you fresh azzzignments, you will continue your usual zzzervice as of today.”

“Didn’t you get the memo, _Lord_ Beelzebub? I no longer work for you or answer to Hell. I quit, after stopping Armageddon, remember? You can take your bloody assignments and stick them up your tiny arse as far as I am concerned. Oh, and by the way, your fecal friend Hastur here can fuck right off as well.”

Crowley placed his hands on his hips and looked down at the furious face of the Prince of Hell and Master of the Fiery Pits with a provocative sneer on his face. If he was going, he was going to go in style, defiant to the end. Beelzebub stepped right up to him and grabbed hold of the wide-linked chain he wore around his neck, the symbol of his tie to Hell, wrenching his head down so that he was nose to nose with them. Their limpid blue eyes regarded Crowley from their expressionless face.

‘Don’t think you can get away zzo easily, _Crawley_ , never forget that you belong to Hell. Just becauzze you have been a traitor and pulled some zztunt yesterday, don’t think you can juszzt walk away and play happy families with some pathetic zzzzpecimen of a renegade angel. _I own you Crawley_ , you can never leave.”

They twisted the chain more tightly in their hand and turned their head to speak to the other demon across the room, “Hazztur, bind him!”

Hastur stepped forward and made a complicated circular gesture with his hand towards Crowley who felt invisible bonds whip around his body. Beelzebub let go of his chain suddenly and he fell to his knees on the floor, his hands pulled away from his sides, slamming together behind his back as if tied there. Beelzebub smiled a terrible smile and looked down on him as he knelt in front of them.

“Itzzz payback time for you and the zztupid angel _Crawley_. I wish you to know, before I make you zztop knowing anything, that he is being taken care of azz we speak. He will have a long time to regret what you both did, but you,” the flat blue discs bored into Crowley’s amber serpentine orbs, “you will continue to be uzzzeful to Hell, for you were a szzzubtle little szzzerpent once and I was happy with your work, and you will be again.”

“W-what are you doing to Aziraphale? Take me, but don’t harm him, it wasn’t his fault, I tempted him into it, he didn’t do anything wrong, not really. Punish me, fine, but leave him alone…” Crowley's voice tailed off when he saw the look of amusement on Beelzebub’s face.

“Aww, do we love the little angel then, Crowley?” The tone was harsh and they spat on the floor, the spittle bubbling and sizzling as it ate its way into Crowley’s distressed oak floorboards, “You dizzguzzt me Crowley, conzzorting with filthy angelzzz. You can plead all you want, it isn’t uzz that are dealing with that little twit, it’s the feathery arseholezz upzztairzz, and knowing that eternal purple prick Gabriel, there won’t be any mercy for him once he getzz up there.”

It took a few seconds for this to sink in, but when it did, Crowley’s mind was swamped with horror. IfBeelzebub had word that Aziraphale had been taken, it was possible that he was already dead. Gabriel had not seemed inclined to mercy when he had seen him last. Anguish filled Crowley's heart. He should have stayed at the bookshop, he should have been there to defend Aziraphale. He had failed him.

“I won’t work for you again, I’m done,” he said, allowing his head to drop. Without Aziraphale, there wasn’t any point in fighting, wasn’t any point in anything any more. He felt the unspeakable loss well up in him; they had been so close to being together, and now everything they had built was being destroyed. Let them kill him or take him back to hell, without his angel, nothing mattered any more.

Beelzebub grabbed his chin in their small hand, wedging their claws into the soft skin under his jaw and pulling his face up to meet theirs.Crowley’s eyes were wide and frantic, their honey colour filling their entire surface. All he had wanted was some time, a little lifetime to be happy and to love. But there was no time suddenly, not even enough to cry out the name of the angel or to sob out his grief, and no time, no time at all to say goodbye. He had thought they might belong to each other, at last. How wrong could he have been, they didn’t even belong to themselves.

“You are mine, Crowley, and you will do azz you are bidden for as long as it pleazzezz me.,” Beelzebub’s droning voice grew louder, echoing in the silence of the gloomy flat, filling his ears, “you hear me now and from now on you will hear only me, and you will know only that which I bid you to know.”

The forget-me-not eyes were relentless, filled with a fathomless will, staring down into Crowley's essence. The world shifted, certain things wavered and faded and that which had been most dear to him in all of his existence was scoured away from his mind.

***

A little butterfly, kept in a jar, beats its wings against the glass, fluttering, fluttering for a while and then resting. Fluttering again, its little body humming and wings beating. And it lives there, hidden, hopeful, and vibrates again and now again, waiting for its time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earth Angel roses are a real thing!
> 
> Comments and kudos mean the world to me, especially at the moment as I am writing away and seeing nobody for days!


	3. What’s the next world like? I think it starts where this one leaves off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some background on life in Heaven, angelic social media and the impact of the failed Apocalypse on some members of the Host. Also what is Aziraphale’s reputation up there since he has been on Earth for the last 6000 years, and what does everyone know of Crowley?
> 
> Warning: gratuitous mentions of Sandalphon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that Neil did suggest that Sandalphon's pronouns are 'it', so I just went with that.
> 
> Huge thanks to the best Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) for all the support and suggestions, laughs and angelic head canon. You are the best!
> 
> Thanks also to my wonderful friends for support and intertextuality from their fics [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) love you fabulous fae.

Angels don’t love, everybody knew that. It was policy: angels loved, yes, but specifically only God, and generally only everything, in a general way. Everybody knew that, and everybody knew that it wasn’t true.

It may have been the truth once, in the Beginning, when they were newly made, spun out of starstuff by the Hand of God Herself, life softly breathed into them by the force of Her love, then gentled by Her hands into the Firmament. Then they were new, blank pages waiting to be written on, beings of love, knowing only Love and only God, their job to praise and love and create, according to God’s will. Before the War and the Fall, they were all innocent, fluffy things, knowing nothing, with no free will, ethereal automata doing what they were programmed to do, bland little machines for loving. As they learned, and lived and made, things changed. Some started asking questions, the brightest star of them all asking the most. And feelings developed, attachment, jealousy, fear. And then there was fighting and confusion and the wrenching away of so many to Fall, and this, too, was God’s will.

The Fallen bestowed, in their absence, a huge, aching void of grief and loss, and various other gifts to their brethren left behind. Amongst these gifts was fear, used by the Archangels ever afterwards to control their workforce and keep them in line. Alongside this was humour, and, without doubt, particular love. After the War, and the Fall, angels of all choirs learned to love, and lean on each other, each according to their partiality for another. It was, strictly speaking, against policy. It remained forbidden for anyone to have personal relationships, in consequence, all liaisons were deeply private and conducted clandestinely. There were never, under any circumstances, any public displays of affection and it was considered extremely impolite to speak about such things or refer to the connection that one angel had with another. Everybody knew it went on, but the knowledge was tacit and unspoken. Early on, some pairings had been indiscreet, but after a couple of show trials and the ensuing forced separations conducted with a certain cold brutality, angels became very good at covering up their affections. So, in this way, love persisted in Heaven, even if it couldn’t be said that it flourished.

Angelic social media had initially helped foster communication between couples and friends. It had all started in the 1970s when Aziraphale had reported back to Gabriel about the development of computers on Earth. Gabriel had some of the Seraphim look into Aziraphale’s vague ramblings about a network of machines that talked to each other by magic. They had conducted an investigation into this computer science created by humanity and hooked up a line from the power source that was used in Heaven, enabling others to create the network that came to be known as the Aethernet.

The first thing to be set up was the Amail system and then the HostWeb service where announcements and general information was posted, featuring a large amount of forms and strictures from Angelic Resources (AR), and a toe-curlingly cringemaking blog entitled “Gabriel Blows His Horn’ in which the principal Archangel benefitted the ethereal community with his golden thoughts on conduct and current affairs.

The first social media application happened by accident. It was developed with the intention of providing all personnel with a place to post praise and prayer to the Almighty, the aim being to encourage thoughts of devotion even when angels were not on active duty. Praise Early, Praise Often, or PEPO, started off working as Gabriel had intended, but, as everyone could see all posts, angels started commenting on thoughts posted by others and leaving encouraging little messages for those that they knew well. After a while, the little messages proliferated and it became the place to trade news and cheery greetings until the Archangels cracked down on it, stating publicly that angels should not be distracted from their proper purpose on this application.

In response to this, the Seraphim had started developing other applications to cater for the perceived need for a bit of chat. The first attempt was SkySpace, which was popular for a while, then came Wingbook, then the messaging service HarpsApp and finally, for short thoughts of the day and praise, Flutter. All of these were used, in coded ways, by angels wishing to contact their significant others. At first, the way in which they were set-up by the clever SeraphTech staff allowed people to believe that the message threads and groups were secure, and they were, to begin with. Paranoia within the Angelic Council soon put a stop to that, and it was not long before every group chat or message was infiltrated by familiar icons representing the Archangels, and all interesting, affectionate and funny chat was gradually shut down, leaving close partnerships reliant on verbal communications once more, or the odd note, treated with a minor miracle to ensure that it burned after reading.

Then there was the Sandalphon Problem. The shorter one of the four Archangels, and the only one to have been elevated from a human incarnation, had a bit of a problem with personal space. It was notorious for being a bit handsy with other angels and the word on the firmament was that it was NSIL (Not Safe in Lifts). The gold teeth that it sported in the front of its lower jaw were the product of an energetic punch in the face it had received from a Virtue it had touched inappropriately at the social function held after a Heaven-wide conference entitled ‘Maximising the impact of salvation in the modern age’. The angel in question had taken up their complaint with AR, having found the proximity of Heaven’s creepiest Archangel so distressing that they were claiming long-term metaphysical damage caused by the experience. There had been a cover up, and the Virtue in question had been obliged to sign a non-disclosure agreement drawn-up by Gabriel to protect his side-kick from the worst of the publicity.

The damage from the very thorough right hook had seeped through to Sandalphon’s relatively delicate true form, and it had not been possible to heal the teeth to persuade them to regrow, as would have been usual. The incident had failed to stop the Rogers and Hammerstein loving Archangel from being an online pest, infiltrating angelic social media groups and popping up in posts with often, frankly, disturbing comments. The worst thing was its proclivity for sending personal messages to individual angels, often with the addition of unsolicited images of itself taken from weird angles. Creepy underwing pics with ribald suggestions made the recipients extremely uncomfortable and Sandalphon, all by itself, became a solid reason why many angels refrained from using the social media networks available to them. It was not possible for an effective complaint to be made about Sandalphon’s behaviour, as its close association with Gabriel effectively guaranteed it immunity from criticism. All of these factors together ensured that gossip remained the main means by which information was disseminated throughout the celestial spheres.

***

The gossip about Aziraphale had started during the time that everyone in Heaven was frantically busy preparing for the approach of Armageddon, then only days away. The Angel Raduerial had appeared in the Earth Observation Office with a worried look on his kind, lean face. He had tapped Harahel on his shoulder, drawing the other angel away from where he was sitting hunched over his screen, and asked if he could have a quick word.

“Harahel, I have a directive here for you,” Raduerial indicated a piece of paper in his hand, half unfolded, the insignia clear on the top of the page, “it is from the office of Lord Michael, she wishes for you to access some of the older tapes and run off prints from them. The request has been marked as urgent.”

Harahel removed his half moon glasses and ran a hand through his pale brown curls, glancing up at Raduerial and noting the worried look on his colleague’s face. He frowned, puzzled. His was a small figure, small and rounded with an open, friendly face and large grey eyes. He and Raduerial were friends, or perhaps a little more than that, it was difficult to say as they were always discreet in whatever constituted their relationship. They made a study in contrasts when they were together, Raduerial, all long lines and sharp angles, his short black hair a shiny cap on his head, deep brown, almond shaped eyes always crinkled in a smile, shining against his warm skin tone. He was tall, and when they walked together, talking and laughing, they looked almost absurd. There were nicknames for the couple, but they were applied affectionately.

They had known each other for as long as they could remember. The senior angel worked in the Records Management section of their division, overseeing the care of the information needed for the day to day work of the celestial realm. Harahel, who reported to him, took care of Earth Observation, a vital job if not the most interesting one, ensuring that a visual record was maintained of all notable activities on the small blue/green planet where the humans resided and went about their, often bewildering to angels, quotidian business. Harahel’s office was tiny, a standard box in the faceless white office space where most of the lower grade angels worked. The bland pale uniformity was obscured by pictures that covered every surface that wasn’t devoted to screens. Harahal loved his job, he had never been there but he loved the Earth too. The pictures popped with colour, images of the human world, its landscapes, animals, birds and fish, human faces, smiling, laughing crying. He extended his love to all things, smiling tenderly as he scanned the images being beamed constantly to him from the bank of screens that covered the wall in front of his desk.

”Fine, that’s never a problem, shouldn’t take me too long, what’s got you so worried?”

Raduerial sat heavily on the other swivel chair in the tiny office and looked across at Harahel, the small crease between his dark brows showing his concern.

“It concerns Aziraphale, they are wanting everything, right back as far as your records go. I have had a similar request, also given as urgent, to produce all of the files we have on him for the last eleven years. I think they know, Harahel, Aziraphale may be in great danger.”

Harahel’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline and he was about to reply when the office door was flung open and Pravuil strode through it, looking flustered. Pravuil, Heaven’s Archivist was nominally in the same section as the other two angels but was actually senior to both and quite a bit older. She had been caring for the Akashic Records since the beginning of time, a job that was both vital and extremely complex. One of the Seraphim, she was usually extremely calm and centred, taking no nonsense from anyone, even those high up in the administration. Today, her smooth brown forehead was crumpled with concern, her long, raven black locks a little messy and colour appeared high on her perfect cheekbones. She bustled into the room and stood, her hands clasped, and looked at the other two beings sitting there.

“Oh, good, you’re both here, I wanted to talk to both of you, I’ve had a rather unusual request…”

“From Lord Michael, by any chance?” interrupted Raduerial.

“Yes! How did you know? She is looking for all the files we have for Aziraphale, right back as far as we go, that’s a lot of paperwork, you know how diligent he has always been with his reports. I’m worried that she might be investigating him.”

“We know because both Harahel and I have had similar requests,” replied Raduerial, frowning properly now, “she appears to be looking for both visual evidence of his activities and all written reports alongside that. I can only imagine that she is going to do some comparisons. I am so worried for him.”

“It’s worse than I thought then,” said Pravuil, “it sounds as if they are definitely investigating him,” she looked at both angels earnestly, knowing that they would understand, “but it’s Michael, we can’t just say no, or mess it up, we’re going to have to do it, you know what she’s like.”

The other two angels exchanged worried looks.

“Indeed,” said Raduerial, ‘Michael is…well, Michael.”

Michael of all the Archangels was the one that was most formidable. Direct requests from her office could never be ignored and she expected them to be acted upon with alacrity.

“I had better get on with it then, it’s going to take ages as it is. Oh, this is awful, and we can’t do anything to warn him, poor cherub,” Pravuil rubbed her hand across her face and looked weary, “I have a very bad feeling about this,” she paused and looked again at her two colleagues, “I don’t like anything about the situation just now, you know, any of it.”

“Me neither,” ventured Raduerial, “better not say any more though, you know we aren’t supposed to have opinions.”

“Well you both know how I feel,” said Harahel, sadly, “I’ll be out of a job soon,” he looked incredibly mournful, “I just don’t see why…”

“Best you don’t speculate,” said Pravuil, patting him on the arm, “I’ll see you both soon, all we can do is hope for the best.”

The truth was that there were a lot of angels who were not happy about the impending war with Hell. Apart from a few of the more belligerent Principalities and Powers, most angels just wanted things to continue in the easy way that they had done for millennia and few relished the notion of actual fighting with their supposed demon adversaries. Some of the younger angels were simply frightened of the notion, but most of those who had existed before the great disruption in Heaven instinctively balked at the idea of having to take up arms against their former siblings. They remembered the first war and the horrible time of the Fall and did not want to revisit scenes such as they had witnessed during that agonising period in their history, it had been such a painful time. There had been a ‘Stop the War’ movement of angels who had argued for appeasement with Hell after Armageddon but they had all been rounded up and the ringleaders were currently languishing in some sort of confinement, no-one was clear where.

Harahel went back to his work and started looking out the images Michael had requested. Not long after that, he took a break and went to grab a coffee from the enormous staff room that Gabriel had recently renamed a ‘break out area’. Most angels ignored this and continued to call it the staff room. When he was there, he bumped into Cherubiel and beckoned the cherub into a quiet corner to have a word.

“You know Aziraphale, don’t you? Well…”

In a few hours, the word was all over Heaven: Aziraphale was being investigated by the Archangel Michael and was potentially going to be in all kinds of trouble.

***

It would have astonished both angel and demon stationed on Earth to know that they had a huge following in Heaven, or to put it more precisely, their relationship had. It had all started in 1793, when the angel Cherubiel had received a request from Aziraphale for assistance with a side project he was undertaking in France. Although Aziraphale was now designated a Principality, he had originally been created a Cherub, and before the creation of the World, had worked with the other Cherubim praising God and in doing so, creating the ethereal power that the Seraphim drew on in their vital work maintaining the structure and stability of the whole of creation.

The Seraphim were the star makers, spinning suns and planets out of the raw firmament in the early days of the Universe and now, overseeing the ongoing progress of everything in time and space. The Cherubim were their powerhouse of prayer and praise, supplying the necessary momentum to allow the Seraphs to do their work keeping everything in the heavens in balance, maintaining order and entropy as they were meant to be. These two tiers of the Host worked in shifts and had little to do with the other administrative duties of the Heavenly realm, although there was some socialising during breaks.

Everyone had been so pleased for Aziraphale when he was chosen to guard the gate of Eden, he was well liked by his siblings and they had clapped him on the back and cheered when he left, armed with his sword, a pleased blush across his cheeks. They had gifted him with blessings and good wishes before he descended to God’s new planet and there had been much excitement all round at the rumoured development of these new beings ‘hu-mans’ who were going to be living there. There had been sadness when they had heard their former colleague was to be demoted to Principality on the grounds that he had allegedly failed to stop the Serpent gaining access to the garden, and sorrow after this when the news reached them that he was to be permanently stationed on Earth and they would not get to see him again until the End Times. They still took an interest in him though, and Cherubiel, particularly, often dropped in tothe Earth Observation Office to ask how he was getting on. When they received Aziraphale’s request, they had been more than happy to take a little time off and go down to Earth to help the other angel with his work.

Aziraphale had been in revolutionary France for some time, helping English aristocrats to escape the persecution that became known as The Terror. He required Cherubiel to take a particular individual away from the prison he had said was called the Bastille, where Aziraphale, dressed in his finery of cream and gold silks and satin, was to take his place and suffer his execution. Cherubiel had been surprised at the time at how complacent Aziraphale had been when contemplating his discorporation by so unpleasant a means. Even though they were immortal beings, their human vessels felt pain and discomfort. The cell in the prison had been noisome in the extreme and Cherubiel was utterly nauseated at what they had seen in the Parisian streets that day. Aziraphale had told the other Cherub not to worry, and that he hoped he would be able to find a way out of his predicament somehow. He was unable to use miraculous power to help himself owing to a restriction that had been enforced upon him by Gabriel, a couple of months before. Cherubiel couldn’t help either as, strictly speaking, they shouldn’t even have been there. They had left Aziraphale sitting in chains on a small stool in the filthy cell, where he had smiled and told Cherubiel not to worry about a thing, called them a dear, and waved them off looking quite serene. Cherubiel had thought it odd, even then.

After taking the reprieved Englishman back to London, Cherubiel had gone straight back upstairs and headed to the Earth Observation Office, anxiously wincing at the thought of being beheaded and wanting to see how their friend had fared. They had been extremely surprised, then, to spot the distinctive figure of Aziraphale, now dressed as a sans culottes sporting a tricolour sash and red cap, walking happily along the Parisian streets with a tall redheaded figure who was unmistakably, to the angel’s sight, a demon. After bringing this to the attention of Harahel, they had done some digging through the back files and found a plethora of similar scenes across time, right back to Golgotha, Mesopotamia and then to the walls of Eden itself. They and Harahal had looked at each other for a long moment after viewing the tapes and had both smiled at the same time. Aziraphale was friends with a demon, not just any demon though, the particular one of the Fallen who had caused the fall of man, the Serpent of Eden and Aziraphale’s adversary on earth, Crowley. Both entities had originally viewed all the evidence with mounting disbelief, but as they looked and looked at the images, they could clearly see the friendship blooming between Crowley and Aziraphale and could not find it in their hearts to disapprove. There were many angels who had lost loved ones to the fall and who longed for them and missed them still. They were beings of love, after all, and demons were still part of God’s creation. Some of the more philosophical angels argued that demons were actually more deserving of love, because their Fall and disgrace was clearly still part of Her plan, so they were doing God’s will, in their way. This was very much not the party line, but many thought it, even if it was not talked of openly.

Harahel was an obliging angel and good at his job. He was also an incorrigible gossip. It was not long before talk in the staff room was almost exclusively in whispers about _Aziraphale_ and the _Demon Crowley_ and how they were _friends_ and wasn’t it _exciting and romantic_. For their part, Cherubiel went back to their siblings in the area of Heaven where the Cherubim worked and told everyone all about Aziraphale and what had happened. There is a reason why the Cherubim are depicted on Earth as little fat babies with cute faces. Although they were created as Guardians of God’s throne, are huge, resplendent beings that would inspire awe to the point of madness in a human were one to be seen in their true form, and can fight if they are pushed to it, they are by their nature, _soft._ In essence, they were intended to be some of the most emotional and loving beings in the whole of creation, they had to be, for their work. So, news of this friendship spread like wildfire amongst the Cherubim, and all of them without exception thought it charming and adorable. They still remembered Aziraphale, and thought it was sweet that he had found someone.

It was not long before it became customary for angels to visit Harahel just to ask him if there had been any more meetings between the Earth based angel and demon. Each time the tapes yielded evidence of contact, there would be a buzz about the place and droves of angels would drop in to look at the images. As the years passed, it was generally noted that the expressions of affection on Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s faces were more and more obvious, and some of the angels in the know stopped saying _friendship_ and started saying _love affair_. Some insisted it was still definitely a friendship, and there were endless discussions on the subject that could occasionally become quite heated. Largely, though, people agreed to differ on the issue and, either way, it remained the case that swathes of the Host were utterly smitten by the pair, sighing over the images of their meetings and talking endlessly about what the duo were likely to be up to. Many angels were fascinated by the Earth, having never been there, and enjoyed the glimpses of the colourful world that God had created and the exploits of the two terrestrial bound beings on it. They became so popular, a romantic drama for beings who had no other entertainment than the sound of their own voices, that by the time of the manifestation of the Antichrist, affection for the star-crossed partnership was extremely well established. They were Heaven’s own soap opera and everybody loved them.

It should be explained at this point that ‘everybody’ did not include the four Archangels who formed the Angelic Council and were responsible for executive decisions over all of Heaven below the level of the Cherubim. Fortunately for Aziraphale, these particular angels remained ignorant of his relationship with Crowley. For a long time now, the Archangels and their staff had occupied what became known as the Executive Office Suite on a floor that was prohibited to other staff. They had their own rest area and offices and angels only visited this floor when they were specifically summoned to do so. In their eagerness to establish their seniority over the other classes of angels, they had, over the years, almost entirely cut themselves off from the majority of the host, seeking an isolation that effectively guaranteed that they didn’t actually know what was going on most of the time. It was true that they held seminars and team bonding exercises regularly, and conducted the various performance reviews as these arose, but all of this did not give them real access to the state of morale of what might loosely be described as the workforce. Consequently, they were mostly oblivious to the rising levels of unhappiness amongst the Host in the period running up to the Apocalypse, and had no idea that the fanbase for Aziraphale and his relationship with Crowley had become a focus for that discontent.

***

After the apocalypse had been averted and all angels on a war footing stood down, Pravuil was surprised in her office at the ethereal level of the huge, inter-dimensional records repository by Jophiel, the Cherub who worked in the Heavenly Scriptorium. Jophiel was responsible for all formal documents issued by Heaven. Back in the old days, these had included carved stone tablets as well as illuminated manuscripts on Heavenly vellum. Jophiel was an accomplished draftsangel and artist although these days her carving was mostly a hobby. She produced lovely statues of all sorts of things in her spare time and examples of her sensitive and beautiful works stood in offices all over Heaven. She often gifted smaller pieces to friends. Her workload was light and her team had been reduced down to just herself and one clerical angel to do her paperwork. Mostly now she just drafted commendations for Gabriel to issue under his seal. When she appeared in Pravuil’s office on this occasion she was sobbing, her cascade of white blonde curls shuddering in time with her cries, shoulders heaving. Pravuil at once took the other angel in her arms, making soothing noises, leading Jophiel to sit in her office chair then perching on the arm of it, rubbing small circles on Jophiel’s back to calm her. Once the Cherub seemed to be less distraught, she spoke.

“Hey, lovely, what’s got you so upset, hmm? You can tell me, pet.”

Jophiel looked up, her pale blue eyes meeting Pravuil’s steady brown ones.

“Oh, Prav, dearest! I’ve been asked to…to draw up a…d-death warrant.” The sobbing started up again and Jophiel put her head in her hands, thrusting her fingers into her long platinum curls.

“WHAT!” Pravuil recoiled from where she was holding the other angel, “who for?”

“That’s the thing, I d-don’t know,” Jophiel was hiccuping and choking as she tried to get her words out, “they told me to leave the name b-blank,” she wailed and collapsed into Pravuil’s arms again.

Pravuil looked into space above the bowed head of the weeping angel in her arms, her mouth settling into a firm line of displeasure. What in the name of all that was holy did Gabriel and Michael think they were doing now? She had thought now that the Apocalypse had failed and war with Hell had been indefinitely postponed, things could return to something more like normality and angels and demons could perhaps think about formulating some other way to work together to keep the world and all of creation in balance.

The gossip network had lit up like a chain of fairy lights after the instruction had been issued by a clearly exasperated Gabriel for everyone to stand down from their war footing. He had made a broadcast on the main channel of the Aethernet to the effect that all angels co-opted into the army could hand-in their swords and armour to the military stores and return to their usual work. No explanation had been given but, despite being as beautifully turned out as ever in one of his pristine grey suits, the Archangel had very much given the impression of an ethereal being at the end of his tether.

It was not long after this that rumours began to circulate purporting to originate with members of Aziraphale’s Platoon. These were to the effect that that the Earth-based angel had turned up in Heaven after Gabriel had sounded the horn for battle formation, late, minus his flaming sword, with no earthly corporation and had promptly told Cerviel that he refused to fight. He had then, and those telling the story lowered their voices to a whisper at this point, announced that if demons could _possess_ a human then so could he, and taken the express route back to the Earth, leaving Cerviel with his mouth flapping, incapable, for once, of shouting anything at all. Of course this only served to heighten the reputation that Aziraphale had unwittingly garnered for himself, and speculation was rife that he had been dashing back down to join _His Demon_ and save the world.

Pravuil could only hope that this instruction to Jophiel did not represent what it very much looked like: a death sentence for Aziraphale. If it was, there was evidently not going to be any kind of trial, for, as Archivist, she would have known about that, volumes of legal precedent being stored in her repository and routinely consulted before any kind of legal action took place. Whatever the Archangels were up to, it wasclear that it was being conducted in secret.

Jophiel’s sobs were lessening now, and she looked up at Pravuil, “I can’t stop thinking about the last time I had to do this,” she sighed, her breath hitching and voice lowered to a whisper, “there were _so many_ then…”

Jophiel was referring to the time of the Fall, when she had been given the daunting task of drafting death warrants for all of the Fallen. This was required because they were to be regarded as dead to God’s Grace and the warrants were the symbolic representation of that fact. The task had taken Jophiel, and her then numerous team, nine years to complete, working as fast as they were able. The bundles of parchments, yellowed now with age, still sat on shelving deep in the restricted section of the Akashic records store, alongside the huge tomes of God’s personnel records, the earliest volumes containing page after page of empty spaces where names had been erased from the record, to be known no more, the legacy of the Fallen.

***

Pravuil was surprised and relieved when the beautiful, illuminated parchment warrant that Jophiel had drawn-up was brought to her a few days later for inclusion in the Archive as was customary. The space for the name remained unfilled, the whole document written over with the word ‘cancelled’ in Gabriel’s distinctive, looping hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you are enjoying this, comments are always welcome and I promise to answer every one. Keep safe all, and stay well!


	4. Mistakes don't happen here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out just what happened in the bookshop when Aziraphale put the phone down and what has been on the Archangel Gabriel's mind lately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thanks and hugs go to my outstanding beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) and to my ever lovely friends for there encouragement, support and all round gorgeousness [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) love you all.
> 
> Stay safe lovely Good Omens people and keep well!
> 
> Kudos and comments, are very welcome as ever.

The Archangel Gabriel paced about his office, waiting for a delivery that he was expecting at any moment. He was agitated, _nothing_ had gone right for him of late, and the strain of failure on a being unaccustomed to being stymied in anything was telling on him. Things were not right in Heaven. There were mutterings amongst the workforce and he worried constantly about the possible erosion of his authority, something that was intolerable to him. Then there was the other problem.

Gabriel couldn’t stop thinking about thighs, lissome thighs encased in striped dress trousers, topped with a tight little ass that he imagined might be like a peach were he able to unwrap it, and take a bite. Despite his best efforts to restrain his wayward mind, it would keep drifting to images of a svelte waist nipped in under a black morning suit tailcoat, petite shoulders, the pale column of a neck rising from a white dress shirt collar, porcelain skin, ruby lips drawn back slightly from sharp, white teeth a little long for comfort, and cornflower blue eyes with a maddening expression of boredom under which, he knew, lay a terrible and unfathomable rage.

Gabriel was having lustful thoughts, he didn’t much like it but for the immortal life of himself, he couldn’t stop. His work was a distraction but as soon as he was at his ease, the images would start up again. He wondered what it would be like to slake his thirst, unwrap that tender body, kiss and suck and lick and take everything that it promised and watch his oldest adversary, a Prince of Hell, fall apart under his hands. Or even better, allow himself to be swallowed up in that awful wrath and surrender to it, giving himself up to the pleasure that it would undoubtedly bring him to just let go and be pulled under by a tidal wave of fierce desire. Lord preserve him, but he even fantasised about those ridiculous socks and how they bit into the white flesh he could see above their ankle.

The Archangel had not seen Beelzebub for many thousands of years. The last time they had laid eyes upon each other had been far back in antiquity when both had manifested quite differently. He seemed to remember horns, black fleece, leathery wings and hooves. He too had been different, there had been no suits then and he had been raw, less man-shaped and more of energy and light. Times had changed, he had barely noticed it but they were nothing like those monolithic figures any more. All a matter of policy; where had the time gone?

There had been many occasions when they had worked together, of course, when the Great Plan required that the forces of both Heaven and Hell attend manifestations of Her will. The flood, Jericho, Egypt, Babylon, Sodom and Gomorrah. It was never talked about of course and had he been asked about it directly, he would have denied it had ever happened, but there were occasions when it was necessary, and both he and his Great Adversary knew this very well.

There had always been professional respect between them, despite the insults they routinely exchanged, which, in their own peculiar way, were a courtesy between them. Each understood that the other had a job to do and did it well. At the air base, the feelings of mutual frustration they felt at the behaviour of Satan’s brat and the two traitors had fostered a supportive air of understanding between them as they discussed what it might be best to do. The moment he looked into that delicate face and saw the sympathetic exasperation written on it, he had started to have unaccustomed feelings that affected not just his mind, but his corporation, heat pooling in his gut and stirrings in that which he had manifested to ensure that his Jermyn Street tailor did not look at him askance.

It was all the fault of the renegades, of course. Their perverted relationship was what had put the possibility of such propinquity into his mind. Before he became aware of just what was going on between Aziraphale and the Demon Crowley, his mind had been unsullied. He sat in his office chair and contemplated this. The actions of Aziraphale particularly, had ruined just about everything. The thought put him into a towering rage. He was culpable, more than the other, what could anyone expect of a demon after all? No, the angel was to blame, if they could call him an angel now, immune to hellfire, as he was. What, exactly, had he become? It wasn’t to be tolerated and he would not be gainsaid. If they couldn’t kill the wretch, they would reel him back in and see him submit to discipline, and with the help of Michael, he knew exactly how this was going to be achieved. Once the little rat had been broken, then he, Gabriel, could hold his head high once more, safe in the knowledge that nobody could claim to have bested his will.

There was a knock on the door, he stepped across to open it and saw three figures outside as he had expected.

“Ah, Nanael, Nithael, you have him, good, bring him in and see that he is tied to that chair there, at the back of the room. Then you may wait outside until I call you to take him down.”

***

Aziraphale had been horrified when he had seen the burly figures of the two Principalities dressed in the sky blue, white and gold fatigues of the Heavenly army lurch through the bookshop doorway. Although not from his regiment, he knew them slightly from the war times and had always thought them pleasant enough, if a little dense. They had advanced upon him with a purposeful air and taken up their positions there in front of him on his shop floor. While one of them had unrolled a scroll that appeared in his hands, the other stood at-ease. The one holding the scroll, Nithael, cleared his throat in an exaggerated way and began to read.

“Princ’pality ‘Zir’phale,” he began, “On the express direction of our Commander in Chief, the Lord Michael, it is noted that you have been officially recorded as Absent Without Leave from your regiment for the last six thousand and twenty two years, four months and three days. You are hereby ordered to re-join your platoon without delay, on the pain of court martial should you fail to do so.” He finished reading and rolled up the scroll again, at which point it promptly disappeared.

He had initially backed away, saying 'What?', not believing what was happening, and then ‘No!' when he realised exactly what they were doing. Nithael had smiled grimly, said “Sorry about this mate, but orders is orders” and loomed over him, his intent all too clear. He had nodded at Nanael and they had closed in on Aziraphale.

When he knew fully that they intended to take him, he had fought, desperately. Tables had been knocked flying, books spilling out across the floor as the three of them lurched around the shop while he struggled against their clutching hands. He cried out again, “No! Stop!” but it was useless, no-one heard him and these boys were strong. He managed to land a few punches, he was a soldier himself, after all, but he was no match for them, they were big and fit and determined and they had him under control within a few minutes. He hung between their hands, clothes torn, a swelling burgeoning above one eye and blood dripping from a split lip, realising that there was nothing more that he could do.

“Come along now lad, no more struggling and you won’t get ‘urt.” Nanael’s voice was not unkind he noted, more matter of fact. Aziraphale was wretched, if only he had gone to Crowley, perhaps they could have done something and stopped this from happening, but it was too late.

As they dragged him to the door, the only thing going through his mind was desperate thoughts of Crowley. He would think of the bookshop later with huge grief and regret, but his first thought was despair that he had never been brave enough to tell Crowley he loved him, and the second that he was being robbed of the chance to even say goodbye.

They frog-marched him to the door of the shop where they both drew their free hands downwards with a snap, transporting all three of them up to Heaven without any delay. Behind them, the bookshop locked its own doors and turned out its lights, aware that its master, who loved it, was no longer on the earth to care for it any more.

***

“Aziraphale.”

The greeting was in an exasperated monotone. Aziraphale, in his chair near the back wall, looked around the room, familiar to him from his routine work appraisal meetings. The white walls were broken by the framed posters of inspirational quotations that the Archangel loved so much and, behind the desk, an enormous portrait of Gabriel in his ceremonial robes, spear in hand, with his usual huge and toothy smile that Aziraphale found perpetually unnerving . Beneath this image, a rather obnoxious font shouted _‘Dream big, work hard’_. His eyes drifted to the other posters:

_Your only limit is YOU_

_Shine Brighter_

_Miracles are what we do._

_It’s not how good you are, it’s how good you want to be._

And the one that had always caused Aziraphale the most disquiet whenever he was in that room, the one in the biggest font of all:

_The Lord Exhorts Her Angels to be_

_PERFECT_

Aziraphale noted that Gabriel kept well away from where he was tied to the chair, staying behind the expanse of his desk at the side of the room furthest from him. He cleared his throat, his voice rising nervously into the still air of the room.

“Gabriel, what good will it do bringing me back here? Surely we can discuss this like reasonable…”

Gabriel’s voice cut across him, his delivery curt and impatient.

“Reasonable? _Reasonable_? In what way can _anything_ that you have been doing lately be described as reasonable, huh?”

Aziraphale looked down at his lap, flexing his wrists against the bonds that held them to the arms of the chair. He wanted to be brave, but the presence of the other was as huge and daunting as it had ever been. Then he remembered that Crowley, when he had taken his place the previous day, had acquitted himself with honour, so he sat up straighter in his chair and began to speak.

“As I said at the time, I, that is, we, were there in the service of God’s will.” He nodded to reassure himself of his argument, swallowed and continued, “What took place at Tadfield must have happened for a reason. The Ineffable Plan, Gabriel, it’s – well – Ineffable…” he looked across at Gabriel and saw the Archangel’s face change, his violet eyes dark with fury. He leaned across his desk, extending his index finger and jabbing it in the air towards Aziraphale.

“You little fucking _freak_ , don’t you talk to me about _ineffability_. You messed up everything we have been working towards for the last six thousand fucking years. You made a fool out of, m– everyone, you and that _disgusting_ demon. How dare you, Aziraphale? Just who the fuck do you think you are?”

There was a pause during which Aziraphale considered saying a number of things and rejected them all as not being constructive, his lips pursing as he attempted to form a coherent sentence that would be in any way helpful. Gabriel took a breath and continued in a more normal tone of voice.

“And your association with this _demon_ , Aziraphale, in what way can that be considered _reasonable_ , hmm?” Gabriel was out of his chair and pacing in front of his desk.

“We were just working together for the good of the Earth and humanity, to…to — save the world.”

Aziraphale tried to remain calm and keep his voice steady. He wasn’t sure at this point how much they knew about his connection with Crowley and didn’t want to bring trouble down on the demon with his superiors in Hell. Having seen them together at the airfield, he knew that Gabriel and Beelzebub were on relatively friendly terms. If he was stuck up here, he could not protect Crowley from whatever Hell might do to him if they found out about the Arrangement.

“Don’t try to bullshit me, Aziraphale,” Gabriel lifted a file from the top of his desk and waved it in the air, “we have solid evidence that your fraternisation with this Crowley goes back much further than that.”

He opened the file and took out a pile of photographs, fanning them out in his hand and holding them up so that they were visible to Aziraphale. He could see that they were of he and Crowley together in various places: St James’ Park, walking in Soho, at the Globe Theatre. There were a lot of them, and they seemed to go back a long way. His heart sank; they knew everything. Gabriel slapped the photographs down on top of the file and leaned back against the edge of his desk, arms folded, looking across at Aziraphale contemplatively. His lips lifted and he smirked at the other angel.

“Is it the sex, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale started and did a double take, looking over at Gabriel with wide eyes.

“What? I mean, I beg your pardon?”

“Sex, Aziraphale. Is that why you did it? Does he roll you in satin sheets, hmm? Press his sinful skin against yours, cover you in burning kisses, fill you up with his hot length, defile you? _And do you enjoy it, Aziraphale_?”

Gabriel’s face was flushed and his chest heaving as he finished his speech and glowered at Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s mind was racing. Clearly, Gabriel thought he and Crowley were lovers, and was somehow aroused at the notion, by the look of him. Slightly sickened, he blushed reflexively and then recoiled at the idea of this ridiculous person reducing his feelings for Crowley to simple carnal lust. This was something between them, he and Crowley, and moreover, something they had never even talked about. Anger grew in him at this intrusion into a thing that was private and precious to him and he lashed out.

“ **NO!** ”

Aziraphale used his true voice for a moment and the sound of it echoed around the huge office. Gabriel raised his eyebrows.

“I would remind you who you are talking to, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale drew in a breath, he was angry and confused but also aware of the immense power of the other angel. He was very much at a disadvantage here and obviously now at the mercy of a cross examination that he did not at all relish. He took a breath and ventured an attempt at damage limitation.

“He, I mean Crowley, has always been a wily demon. He is quite brilliant, so I have had to keep very close tabs on him in order to thwart his evil plans and that has meant coming into contact with him a great deal. He has always kept me on my toes, my toes, yes…” he tailed off, looking across at Gabriel, anxiously.

Gabriel ventured across the room nearer to Aziraphale and looked him full in the face, his forehead creasing with obvious puzzlement. Gabriel closed his eyes for a moment and Aziraphale felt the Archangel’s senses brush his own. He tried to push the probing power away but the force was far too strong for him. Gabriel opened his eyes and backed away again, an expression of astonishment washing over his face.

“Dear Lord, you _love_ him. You do, don’t you? You poor deluded fool, Aziraphale. This is so much worse than we thought.” Gabriel’s voice was gentler than before, but still drenched with condescension.

“We are _friends_ ,” protested Aziraphale, and then he remembered his vow not to lie, to be true to Crowley, closed his eyes and nodded slowly “Yes, Gabriel. Yes, I do. He has been a true friend to me and to humanity, I couldn’t help but love him. He’s one of Her creations, and he is beautiful. It’s not a s-sinto love him, I b–believe.” He looked up nervously at Gabriel and waited for his inevitable condemnation.

“And are you foolish enough to believe that he returns your feelings, Aziraphale? You know demons can’t love, right?”

“ _That’s not true_!” Aziraphale spoke with vehemence in defence of his love, “I see how Crowley loves the world, and the people in it, the children, plants, animals. He loves, I know he does, I can _feel_ it.”

“But not you, I notice you don’t include yourself in that list. Ohhh, I see,” Gabriel looked at the other angel pityingly, “you haven’t told him, have you? He doesn’t know you care for him, does he? You really are pathetic, Aziraphale,” Gabriel perched on the edge of his desk again and nodded, knowingly, continuing to speak.

“I don’t imagine he would care for you even if you did tell him. From what I saw yesterday, he’s an attractive one, for a demon, that is. Could probably have anyone he wants, probably does. What would he want with something like you, Aziraphale? I mean, _look at you_.”

Gabriel sneered as he looked Aziraphale up and down. Aziraphale sat with his head bowed, he knew that this was what Gabriel thought of him, had always known, if he was honest with himself ( _The Lord Exhorts Her Angels to be PERFECT_ ). The crack about his gut had been the latest in a long line of belittling remarks he had received from his superior over the years. Hearing those things about Crowley hurt, he tried to ignore them and believe in what he hoped was true. Crowley cared, he knew he did. He remembered the feeling of that cool hand in his, fingers wrapped around his own, and tried to keep faith in the being that he loved.

Gabriel sat on the edge of his desk and began speaking in his usual hearty voice.

“It looks like we have got you back just in time, Aziraphale. You are going to learn some discipline, buddy. You have gone badly astray, believe me, all this is for your own good.”

“My own good, yes, that’s what you are interested in, isn’t it, after trying to kill me yesterday, of course I believe that,” said Aziraphale, bitterness thick in his mouth.

“You need to get it through your thick head that what you think doesn’t matter. We’ll soon have you straightened out. A spell in solitary so that you can think things over, then back to your regiment, Aziraphale, get that flabby corporation of yours licked into shape. They’ll soon have you thinking differently. Then we’ll see what you can do to serve Heaven after that.”

Aziraphale was horrified at the prospect before him. He had been a soldier once but that was a very long time ago and even then, it hadn’t been something he had chosen. Everyone was forced to serve in the Great War, even Cherubim such as himself. He remembered fighting at the doors of the Akashic Records building where he had been stationed to guard the facility, dear Pravuil at his side, wielding her sword, hair flying as she fiercely defended all that she stood for. He had been wounded in the thigh but fortunately had never been put to actually killing anyone. His demotion to Principality had been purely symbolic, he had never taken his place in his designated regiment, being sent back to his assignment on Earth immediately after he had received notice of his new status.

Worst of all, he was now being forced to leave everything he loved, Crowley, the world and the people in it, his bookshop. And there was no means now of letting Crowley know where he had gone, the demon would simply believe he had left. He was in despair, broken, taken away from everything that made life meaningful for him. He looked at Gabriel dully, defeated.

“My bookshop, what will happen to it?” he asked, softly.

“It’s not your bookshop any more. I don’t know why you let yourself get so tied to material objects. It’s not proper angelic behaviour, Aziraphale. Stop thinking about such side issues and concentrate on your rehabilitation for now. Focus, toe the line, get with the programme and maybe we can look at all of this again. If you can show me that you have improved your attitude, maybe we can reconsider what your role is to be, give you another assignment on Earth. I will say this for you, Aziraphale, you do understand those weirdos down there. Right, I am just waiting for notification of something and I’ll get you taken to your barracks.”

As if on cue, there was a hesitant knock on the door. Gabriel shouted for whoever was knocking to come in and the figure of a small angel appeared in the doorway with a pair of tongs in her hand, at the end of which there was a singed looking envelope that was still smoking slightly. Gabriel walked across the room and took the tongs from the solemn faced angel, who stood obediently by the door. He returned to his desk, passed his hand over the envelope to extinguish its smouldering, took it from the tongs and extracted the message inside. He put his hand to his chin as he read, turning to the wall as if protecting a secret.

The angel at the door looked across at Aziraphale in his chair, and he attempted a smile for her. His eye throbbed and he could feel the dried blood crusted on his lip. She was an ordinary clerical angel, small with dark brown curls and pretty green eyes. She stared at him, her mouth rounded in an ‘o’ of apparent wonder, eyes wide. As he looked, she glanced at Gabriel, and seeing that he was not looking at her, raised both of her hands to her heart, crossed them there and then extended them both towards Aziraphale in a clear gesture of affection. He smiled again, more genuinely this time and she winked at him and smiled herself, a sunny smile that lifted his tired heart a little. Gabriel glanced up, noticed his smile and looked across to see what he might be smiling at, by which time the little angel’s face was a mask of obedience once more.

“You can go now, Anpiel, no reply required.”

The little angel bowed saying “Yes, my Lord” and left. Gabriel walked over to his desk again and regarded Aziraphale.

“I have just received this notification from Lord Beelzebub. It concerns the Demon Crowley…”

Aziraphale started in his chair, hands twisting below the bonds at his wrist.

“Crowley! What are they…? Have they…? Is he alright?”

Aziraphale was desperate. Whatever this was, it was clear now that Heaven was working in concert with Hell, again, and that Hell was taking an interest in Crowley.

“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Aziraphale, he’s fine.

Aziraphale sat back, relieved but still tense. Gabriel spoke again, a note of pleasure flooding into his voice.

“In fact, I can inform you that the Demon Crowley has accepted a new contract to continue his role as the agent of Hell on Earth. He took up his new assignments just now.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed and what passed for a crafty look came over his stupid, handsome face. Aziraphale, in a tight negative thought spiral, didn’t notice.

“In fact Lord Beelzebub has seen fit to grant his request vis-à-vis the basis of his employment,” he continued

“What do you mean by that?” asked Aziraphale, sharply.

“As I understand it, he has requested that his memories be removed, specifically with regard to his association with you.”

Gabriel looked triumphant as he delivered this news.

“What?”

“His mind has been wiped, Aziraphale, he will continue in his position without any recall of whatever this, _thing_ , has been between the two of you, this - _association_.”

“Oh…”

Aziraphale slumped in his chair, trying to process what was being said to him and failing. Crowley had… _Crowley had asked to forget Aziraphale?_ He was more winded at the enormity of what Gabriel was saying than he had been when he was punched in the gut by Sandalphon in the Soho street on the day of the failed Apocalypse. He was devastated and felt tears welling up in his eyes. Nothing left to lose, he blinked them away and looked up at Gabriel, gathering what remained of his courage.

“What about yours?” he spoke clearly, his eyes full of defiance.

“Excuse me?” Gabriel put down the letter and scowled at Aziraphale, his face thunderous at the challenge in his voice.

“Your _association_. There appears to have been a lot of _fraternising_ going on between here and Hell over this,” Aziraphale took a breath and squared his shoulders, lifting his chin to look Gabriel directly in the eye, “I don’t know when you changed, Gabriel, you used to be my brother, and I loved you and admired you ever so much, but now you’re just a — a — _cockwomble_.”

Gabriel stared at him as if he had grown another head. He did in fact have three other heads but it was regarded as impolite to manifest them usually, so he didn't let them show.

“Get out of here, Aziraphale. I’ll see to it personally that Cerviel gives you plenty time in the cooler for this. We’ll see if you’re so keen to run that mouth of yours again after that, you insubordinate little fuck.”

He stormed to the door and opened it, leaning out to speak to the two Principalities stationed just outside it.

“Nanael, Nithael, you can take him now.”

The two burly angels came into the room, released Aziraphale from the ropes around his wrists and made to escort him from the office, one on each side of him, holding his elbows. Just as they approached the door, Gabriel moved towards Aziraphale, placed his large hand on the angel’s shoulder, to halt their progress, leaned down and spoke in a low voice into his ear,

“Always remember, Aziraphale, it was his _choice_ to forget you,”

Aziraphale tried to keep his face steady, but could not help a little wobble at his lower lip. Gabriel, seeing this, smiled and then began to laugh, the mean sound of his chuckling following them down the corridor as they left his office and moved away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	5. I've been crying ever since we said goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out what Aziraphale’s fate is to be and meet a messenger angel. Meanwhile, back at the bookshop in Soho, all is not well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to my stunning Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) for her kindness, inspiration and brilliant angel names research. Go read her stuff, its excellent!
> 
> Thanks also to me friends who are so wonderful [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) for laughs and videos and support through the strange times we are living in.
> 
> Comments and kudos are, as ever, particularly welcome.
> 
> Stay safe lovely people and enjoy the spring sunshine when you can

Anpiel hid in an alcove and watched as Nithael and Nanael escorted Aziraphale through the corridors of the Executive Office Suite in the direction of the lifts. She followed at a distance and watched them choose the button to go down, guessing that they were on their way to the military compound.

Anpiel was the senior messenger angel. Her job was to take communiqués, either written or oral, for anyone who required that service. She had once managed a huge team, but with the advent of electronic communication, this had dwindled away and now she worked alone. She was used for the most important exchanges of information between angels where discretion was required. Anpiel was extremely discreet and was the very best at keeping a secret, which was lucky, because she had a lot of secrets to keep. The Archangels trusted her, even if they did not particularly award her their approbation for her trustworthiness. The other angels also placed their faith in her, and with the realisation that electronic messaging could not be relied upon to be secure, angels had begun entrusting her with their billets doux, both written and verbal, to their significant others. She never gossiped and always kept her word.

Between the delivery of official and unofficial communications, Anpiel was endlessly busy, constantly flitting birdlike between the levels of the celestial offices and other Heavenly locations further afield. Her appearance was usually the cause for celebration as it heralded the delivery of greetings and words of devotion, which she unfailingly bestowed upon the recipient with the perfect amount of emotional resonance in the sweetest and most musical tones. Had she been hired to read audiobooks, she would have had the facility to bring the author’s original intentions to the audience in every thought and nuance. In consequence, she was a popular figure, and was welcomed wherever she went. She sang as she travelled around, in a voice that would have been the envy of any earthbound coloratura, the notes of her trilling frequently swooping up into the ultrasonic, audible to those denizens of the spheres in which she worked. Her song preceded her and the hearing of it gladdened the hearts of those she lived amongst.

Anpiel was blessed with a singularly tender heart, which enabled her sensibilities to vibrate in tune with those whose messages of love she carried. She was a being of empathy and a good and true friend. Unfortunately, despite being one so loving, her work precluded her from forging any intimate ties for herself. Even though everyone loved her, she had no significant other to call her own. It was perhaps because of this that she was such an enthusiast for news of the relationship between Aziraphale and Crowley. Anpiel thought Aziraphale was a sweetie and was in awe of the handsome and dashing Crowley. Her emotional little soul found the whole idea of the doomed love of an angel for a demon endlessly romantic. She doted on them both and waited breathlessly for news of them, designing her delivery routes specially to include frequent visits to the Earth Observation Office, where she quizzed Harahel for the latest updates and spent as much time as she dared in conjecture as to their feelings and motivations. She and Harahel had become good friends over the years and appreciated their connection, united in their interest in The Course of One True Love. Anpiel was rarely lonely, being so busy, but in her secret heart, she would have liked a special someone. Were she to be completely honest about that, she might have confessed a yearning to capture the heart of a demon of her very own

The little green-eyed angel was breathless when she arrived at the Earth Observation Office and grabbed Harahel by the sleeve. He took one look at her wide-eyed expression of distress and sat her in his office chair, bidding her to take a drink of water and compose herself before she began to speak. Harahel himself was not in the best of spirits. A few hours after submitting the images that had been requested of him to Michael’s office, he found himself summoned there again to answer some questions that she wished to put to him as a matter of urgency. There then followed the most uncomfortable interview that he had ever experienced in his life. Michael was coldly furious and cross-examined him thoroughly as to why he had not noticed that Aziraphale was meeting with a demon and on whether or not he was competent to do his job. Michael had skewered him with the ruthless steel of her gaze, and he found himself in the profoundly uncomfortable position of speaking the first untruth he had ever uttered to one of the Host, and to an Archangel at that. It was a terrifying ordeal for him. Luckily, he had been able to hold his nerve and she had accepted his plea of not having noticed the specifics of Aziraphale’s actions amongst all the other activity on Earth. She had upbraided him in the strongest terms, calling him an inattentive idiot and issuing him with a written warning. He had left her office feeling wrung-out but also secretly pleased that he had found the strength to protect both himself and the countless other angels who knew of the clandestine relationship between Aziraphale and Crowley.

Anpiel caught her breath and managed to make a coherent sentence:

“Oh, Harahel! It is Aziraphale, he was in Lord Gabriel’s office, all knocked about and so sad looking. Whatever shall we do? I overheard them say that he was to be taken to the barracks. I cannot imagine what this means or why he is up here at all. Oh Harahel, whatever shall we do?”

Harahel patted her hand awkwardly in an attempt to allay her obvious distress. He had been worried about Aziraphale ever since the failed Apocalypse and had kept a close eye on the angel’s comings and goings since that time. His conscience weighed upon him. Not only had he lied to one of his brethren but he was now also very guilty of having altered the record the maintenance of which was supposed to be his sacred duty. He had tampered with the footage. A lot.

First, there had been the images of Aziraphale and Crowley entering a block of flats in Mayfair on the night of the Saturday that Armageddon was averted, clearly together. Then there was the matter of witnessing the extraordinary sight of both angel and demon being forcibly removed from St James’ Park by their respective sides the next morning. Following this, the pair had appeared on the record separately, each leaving the London Headquarters and walking to Berkeley Square where, once they had met up, he had been privy to the strange vision of the flow of each to the other’s corporation as they sat together on one of the benches. Harahel had destroyed swathes of the record that contained those images that incriminated the couple with sharp bursts of his own angelic energy, heart in his mouth as he did so. He had removed a good half hour of the recording, including the images of them walking arm-in-arm after emerging from the Ritz later on the same afternoon. These actions caused him no little heartache. He suspected his office was being watched after his cross-examination by Michael and he expected hourly that some official would appear at his door to inform him that he was to be removed and punished. He bore this burden alone, refusing to confide in Raduerial to avoid incriminating the person he loved best.

“I am so glad you came to me, dearest Anpiel. I know it is upsetting, but at least we know now what is going on and we can try to help. I can’t do anything from here just now as I believe this office is under observation. Think Anpiel, the Observation Office under observation!” He attempted a laugh but it came out as a strained squeak owing to his state of nervous tension. “Can you take a message dear? Of course you can, what am I saying?” He laughed again and she joined in, both of them giggling slightly hysterically. “You know the Prince Angel of the Cherubim?” Anpiel nodded, her eyes huge. “Yes? Find them and tell them what has happened. They know Aziraphale very well and should have some idea of what to do. Go well Anpiel, and may God be with you, dear one.”

Anpiel took one of Harahel’s hands and gave it a squeeze before running out of his office and along the corridor in the direction of the escalator to the upper areas. There was no song on this occasion, she was too concerned for singing. She made her way to where the Cherubim worked with a determined look on her face. She would help save Aziraphale if it was the last thing she did.

***

Aziraphale stood in front of Cerviel’s desk in the office suite of the military compound. The Head of the Principalities himself was standing to attention next to him. He had collected Aziraphale from Nithael and Nanael at the gates and brought him to his office in silence, his disapproval radiating from his body language and the way in which his generous golden sideburns appeared to bristle with his irritation. He was his usual dapper self, pale blond hair gelled back from his forehead in neat waves, uniform immaculate, its gold braid and buckles gleaming. Seated behind Cerviel’s desk was their Commander in Chief, Michael, in full dress uniform, chest resplendent with various glittering decorations, ribbons and medals shifting and glinting in the light as she tapped away on her tablet. Aziraphale could see a file with his reference number on it sitting on the desk in front of her

“Principality Aziraphale!” barked Cerviel, “what do you do in front of your superior officer?”

Aziraphale had already been upbraided for not saluting Cerviel when he had first encountered him. He didn’t feel like a soldier in any way, but assuming it would not go well for him if he did not comply on this occasion, he managed a half-hearted salute, his fingers brushing against his rather flattened curls. He was aware that he wasn’t acting in his own best interests, Gabriel was one thing, he was powerful, but Aziraphale in his previous dealings with his immediate superior, had always felt a sense that he might be flattered or talked round if one were to choose the right words. Michael, on the other hand, was of an entirely different order altogether. Tough, uncompromising and diamond bright, she was known to be absolutely ruthless. Additionally, he knew that she had framed in her office a huge reproduction of a human painting from the bloody awful fourteenth century showing her in decorative armour subduing a suspiciously serpentine dragon with both feet and her spear. She had, he guessed, no great love in her heart for the fallen serpent of Eden. However, he was tired and dispirited by the news he had just received about Crowley. Although he was hugely relieved that Crowley was safe, he suddenly felt that he could not find it in him to care very much about himself any more. He had a sudden flash of memory of Michael as he had seen her last, with a quizzical expression of astonishment on her face as she handed him a bath towel, smiled inwardly and braced himself for whatever she was about to say.

“It’s alright, Cerviel, we know that this one is congenitally determined to be disobedient,” said Michael, looking up at last, “Aziraphale,” she straightened up and looked him in the eyes, her gaze flat and entirely devoid of any feeling, “do you know why you are here?”

“Not really, if I’m honest,” responded Aziraphale, tired of the rigmarole and wishing they would just get on and do whatever it was that they intended.

“It has been decided by Gabriel and I that it is best that you return to active duty. But first, there is the question of your refusal to fight after Gabriel’s call to battle recently. Cerviel, read the citation.”

Cerviel cleared his throat and began to read. Aziraphale zoned out. Michael had, he realised, a little speech impediment when she spoke, just the suggestion of a lisp. For a moment, it reminded him of Crowley, whose speech became sibilant whenever he was stressed or became irritated with Aziraphale when they were involved in one of their customary disagreements over the years, both serious and petty. It had happened quite a lot recently, when they were discussing their plan or arguing over, say, the appropriateness of mixed peel in hot cross buns, something which Aziraphale rather liked but which Crowley described amusingly as an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. He was thinking fondly of how Crowley liked to accentuate this tendency on occasion when he noticed that Cerviel had stopped reading and Michael was addressing him directly. She stood and snapped her fingers in his face

‘Focus, Aziraphale! Concentrate! I think you will find that this is actually important to you. I was asking you about your wings.”

“My wings? w-what about them?”

“It would appear that when you were demoted to Principality, we allowed you to keep your second set of wings, is that the case Aziraphale?”

It came to Aziraphale in a rush, the memory of Michael, back in the War, lopping off wings with her sword, just one blow for each, the sickening sound of it, and, Lord, the screaming. Like most of the Host, he had tried to lock such memories away in the deepest recesses of his mind.

“Um, yes,” he faltered, feeling a cold rush of dread through his corporation, “I was decorated, for, erm, defending the Archives, you said I could keep them if, I, um, promised never to manifest them, I never have since then.”

Aziraphale, as a Cherub, had two sets of wings, the larger set manifesting from his upper back just below his shoulder blades, the other, smaller, pair appearing from the middle of his back to wrap around his waist. It had been so long since he allowed them to exist in the same plane as the rest of him, he had almost forgotten about them.

“Right, I see,” said Michael, making a note in his file in front of her, “it is my decision then, Aziraphale, that for your flagrant disobedience on the day of the Great Battle, and for your statement of intention not to fight, you should be detained in solitary confinement at my pleasure. It should only be a matter of a few months. Use this time well, and be grateful that I am not, at the present juncture, minded to inflict any greater punishment on you. Have a care, Aziraphale,” she regarded him steadily with her icy blue eyes, “I will not be so lenient with you in the future. Cerviel, take him to the Void.”

Aziraphale felt Cerviel’s hand on his elbow as he was escorted from the room. The Void, he had heard tell of it. A pocket of firmament out of time where there was literally nothing, as there had been before the creation of the Universe. Confinement in it had reportedly driven some angels out of their minds. He wondered vaguely what it was going to be like and if he would survive it. The only tiny glimmer of hope he had left was what Gabriel had said about possibly getting back to Earth if he rehabilitated. At least then he might be able to get a glimpse of Crowley, even if the demon no longer remembered him. Perhaps that was what he ought to work towards. But, just now, he was tired and defeated and felt so utterly alone. He submitted to Cerviel’s touch and allowed himself be steered along corridors and through doorways unresisting. A long journey in a rusty old lift, down and down again and then they were in a shabby basement area. Set into the wall in front of them was a huge door ancient and heavy looking, spotted with rust. It was made of some sort of thick metal with enormous rivets along each side, at the centre of which there was a large wheel operated by a handle welded to its edge. Two uniformed angels appeared from a tiny side office and took charge of Aziraphale on instruction from Cerviel, who turned on his heel and left. Aziraphale’s ears were buzzing and he could no longer feel his feet and hands. The voices of the two soldiers were muffled as they asked him to give up his corporation.

“Can’t go in the Void with your body, mate, come on, hand it over, we’ll keep it for you here, don’t worry.”

He tried to tell them that it was his, given to him new by the Antichrist, but the words just wouldn’t come. For the first time in his life, he left his body voluntarily and stood there in his true form, feeling small and weak. Hands turned the rusty wheel with its flaking paint and the weighty door swung open ponderously. They pushed him and then he was in the void, and then there was nothing.

***

**A.Z. Fell & Co. Soho, London, the Monday after the failed Apocalypse**

Nithael was confused and unhappy. He had been called into Cerviel’s office about an hour after he and Nanael had left Aziraphale there. He had thought that would be an end to his involvement in the matter, but then a messenger had appeared in their quarters and asked that he attend Cerviel’s office immediately. Both he and Nanael had got up to go, when the little Private had interrupted their movements by informing them that the instruction was for Nithael alone. He had followed the messenger angel to Cerviel’s office and found the Lord Michael there, intimidating in her dress uniform, immaculate glossy brown curls piled high on her head in her signature style. He had saluted and stood with a ramrod straight back as she told him about his new assignment. He was, it would appear, to replace the disgraced Principality Aziraphale as Heaven’s emissary on Earth. Michael handed him his new commission papers and directed him to report for duty in the premises recently occupied by the other angel.

“I understand that you took part in his arrest, so you know where it is. Detailed instructions are there in your papers. Principality Nithael, I am counting on you to perform your duties in an exemplary manner. The Heavenly Force has had its share of disgrace of late, I expect you to make us all proud.”

He had barked out his best “Yes, sah, thank you sah.” to Michael, who had merely waved him away. He had left the office smartly and then walked, in a daze, back to quarters and the puzzled face of Nanael, who had immediately started to cross-examine him as to what had taken place.

He had never been without Nanael before. The two of them had always been soldiers together, right from the very beginning. There had never been a time when Nanael was not at his side. They came as a set, had fought side by side in the Great War and were routinely seen as inseparable from each other. Except now, Nithael was on Earth and Nanael remained in Heaven. They were Principalities through and through, tough angels of few words, so they had never spoken of what they had together, what the feeling was that they shared. First, there was the deep camaraderie of long military service, the knowledge that each would die for the other without question, should it come to that. But their connection was much more profound than this, even if they had never thought to give it a name.

Nithael was lonely. He missed his brother with a physical ache that he found almost intolerable. Life without Nanael was unconscionable and he had not the wherewithal to deal with the complex feelings that were rising up in him as a consequence of that terrible absence. He had not wanted to be stationed on Earth, had no interest in the place or its inhabitants, and, despite having read his orders through several times, he still wasn’t entirely clear what it was, exactly, that he was supposed to be doing.

The other problem was how strange he felt. The environment he found himself in was deeply antipathetic to him. The bookshop was an enclosed space, dimly lit and full of hulking shelving and dark wooden furniture. He missed the light and openness of the Heavenly barracks. Then there were the books. He knew what books were, in theory, and he was able to read, but he found them intimidating in such profusion. He had looked at a few, but seen nothing there that caught his interest. He was an active angel, not given to much introspection, the prospect of an unlimited opportunity to read was not something that motivated him in any way. There were also larger volumes in the farthest reaches of the shelves that he found rather alarming. Some were chained shut. When he was directly in front of them, they were quiet, but after he had passed by them, he could swear that he heard the chains rattling and a low, angry muttering that could only be coming from the tomes themselves. He avoided the remoter areas of the shop after noticing that.

Nithael found the environment of the shop extremely oppressive. There was a constant sense of Aziraphale all around him: his things in the tiny bathroom, the smell of his cologne still discernible in the air when Nithael wandered in, his round spectacles resting on the arm of the chair where he had placed them when they arrived to arrest him, the book that he had been reading lying open just by them. His cocoa mug still sat in the small kitchen at the back of the shop where there was a little stove, kettle perched on top of it, a collection of fine teas in boxes in one of the cupboards. All these signs of the departed angel who had made this place his earthly home raised in Nithael an abiding sense of shame.

The bookshop had an atmosphere as well. Nithael thought that he might be being fanciful, but he could swear that he sensed _feelings_ emanating from the very fabric of the building itself. An aura of intense grief permeated the air on occasion, a sadness so overwhelming, the he felt a need to sit down under the weight of it and felt unaccustomed tears gathering in his eyes. All this unease, plus his feelings of desolation at the loss of his own beloved meant that Nithael was an angel extremely out of sorts with himself and the world.

He sat on the little leather sofa in the back shop, not wanting to occupy the seat that was so clearly where the departed angel was accustomed to sit. He started out of this seat when he heard a noise in the main part of the shop. It was music, the ancient gramophone he had noticed when he had explored the shop initially had started up, its turntable was rotating and the sound of a woman singing in a tremulous sopranowas issuing forth from its golden horn

_Vedi? E venuto!_

_Lo non gli scendo_

_Incognito. Lo no. Mi_

_Metto, la sul ciglio del colle e_

_Aspetto, e aspetto_

_Gran tempo e non mi pesa_

_La lunga attesa_

_E uscito dalla folla cittadina_

_Un uomo, un picciol punto_

_S’avvia per la collina._

_Chi Sara? Chi Sara…_

The music halted suddenly. Nithael staggered into the shelving and was hit on the head by a book, which fell at his feet, a page open. He lifted it and read:

_VII_

_Dark house, by which once more I stand_

_Here in the long unlovely street,_

_Doors, where my heart was used to beat_

_So quickly waiting for a hand,_

_A hand that can be clasp’d no more -_

_Behold me, for I cannot sleep,_

_And like a guilty thing I creep_

_At earliest morning to the door._

_He is not here but far away_

_The noise of life begins again,_

_And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain_

_On the bald street breaks the blank day._

Nithael dropped the book from his shaking hand, only to have another fly from a shelf and hit him in the stomach. He caught it and it fell open at a page:

_I promise nothing: friends will part:_

_All things may end, for all began:_

_And truth and singleness of heart_

_Are mortal even as is man_

_But this unlucky love should last_

_When answered passions this to air;_

_Eternal fate so deep has cast_

_Its sure foundation of despair_

Just as he finished reading, the music started up again, something slow and sombre with cascading strings, sobbing together in the minor key. Nithael sat down, put his head in his hands, and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Italian is from Madama Butterfly by Puccini, the aria One fine day
> 
> The first poem is from In Memoriam By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
> 
> The second poem is a fragment by A.E. Housman
> 
> The notion that Aziraphale was created a cherub is taken from the fact that the Bible states in Genesis 3.24 that a cherub is placed to guard the Eastern Gate of Eden. I am positing here that Aziraphale was demoted for letting the serpent into the garden, despite the fact that we see Crawley come directly up from Hell through the ground. Another example of the unfairness of Heavenly judgement here.
> 
> Let me know what you think


	6. Do I look cracked? Not to me, darling. Are you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is in The Void, how does he cope? Meanwhile, Crowley is having some very strange dreams and we find out why he should never teach literary criticism. Anpiel is waylaid by someone she is not expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to my endlessly funny, excellent and inspiring Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) and to my lovely friends who are so wonderful [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) thank you for believing in the power of Story to make positive changes.
> 
> To everyone in this wonderful fandom, keep safe and carry on all the good work.
> 
> Comments and kudos mean the world so do leave some.

Aziraphale could not longer remember his own name. He knew what it was of course, those four syllables given to him by God when he was created, part of him and loved.

_Az - ir - a - phale_

_Az - ir - a - phale_

But they had became a series of ridiculous sounds with no meaning, their connection with himself completely wiped away.

At first it hadn’t seemed so bad, this place from before being. He had persevered there, stoically concentrating on who he was, believing that he could simply be patient and wait until he was released. He had been alone before in desolate places for long periods and seen the time through with good grace, surely this would be no different.

It was dark there, in the Void, dark and soundless. He was utterly alone.

It was not long before he began to feel the effects of his intolerable isolation. The first thing to fade out was the sense of time passing. Soon he felt the pressure of constant stasis. He was manifest in a place that was not a place, a space that was not a space. An unspace. He was in an inchoate lacuna, away from time, form and meaning.

Then there was the fact that, for the first time in his life, he was cut off from all feeling. An angel was a being of love, an exquisite antenna tuned in to joy and warmth. He was accustomed to the constant hum of the love that existed all around him, first, in his early life, in Heaven, and then the euphoric, tenacious, almost overwhelming emotional white noise that was love on Earth. At first he had nearly drowned in it, turning, helpless in the sea of human feelings. But over time, experiencing that love and returning it as best he could, the persistent yet ever changing waves of human love surrounding him had become the background music to his life, its very constancy a comfort. Deprived of it now, unmoored from the warm and mossy staithes of Earthly feelings, the tiny, rudderless boat that was Aziraphale started to drift, spinning and bobbing away from that which tied him to everything that made his life meaningful.

He was flotsam. He floated, indeterminate.

He could see nothing, there were no bearings to get, no orientation to conform to. Soon it was impossiblefor him to perceive where he ended and where the Void began. He was stretched thin, he was curled tight, a ball of dark matter. He was transparent, a ghost. He was scattered pieces of fractured starstuff. He was everywhere and nowhere at all. He had always been. He didn’t exist.

He was jetsam, he had been cast out, unwanted. He sank, uncaring.

***

Dark flowers bloomed purple and red in his vision. They unfurled from their centres whilst folding in from their outer petals. He spent time trying to work out the direction of their relentless pulsing before realising that it just was not possible to even consider this.

Then, there was unendurable pain.

***

A shape coalesced out of the dark in front of him, becoming Crowley, looming up to him and speaking:

_“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”_

Black, and tousled red fading to dove grey with a seal sleek head, Gabriel, laughing, and shivering out of being.

Crowley again, walking past him:

_“Do I know you?”_

Gabriel, waving his hand over his shoulder as he drifted off as smoke, his laughter trailing after him.

Crowley:

_“Who are you again?”_

Morphing into Gabriel, his tombstone teeth glinting in his open mouth, now fading at the edges, gone again.

Michael this time, sword raised by her shoulder:

_“Your_ **_wings_ ** _, Aziraphale, show me your_ **_wings_ ** _. Come on now, I need to see them.”_

He wanted to cry out, in fear, in grief, but he had no voice left to cry with.

_***_

Aziraphale drifting, suffered a sea change, forgetting himself. The pain receded, and in the overwhelming numbness that swept over him, he drowned.

***

Time passed, the ebb and flow of perpetual change, endlessly altering, always the same.

***

***

_He is in the bookshop, sitting on the lumpy cushion of his armchair. Crowley stands up from his place on the sofa and approaches him, raising his hand to push his glasses up into his hair, dark ovals nestling among the fiery strands. His amber eyes are kind, a smile crinkling the edges of them. He lifts his hand as he moves forward, the delicate curve of his long fingers reaching out, his sinistral darling. He feels the cool palm against his hot face and leans into it, closing his eyes…_

_“Aziraphale…Aziraphale, time to wake up now, love…”_

_Soft wings flutter in the place where his chest would be._

***

***

**“CROWLEY!”**

Aziraphale came back to himself abruptly, hearing the noise of his own voice loud and close around him in this place of no acoustics. Where he had been, he was not at all sure, but his voice had roused him from whatever fugue state he had been in. He had not realised he could still speak and hear himself, or perhaps he had previously not been able to do so, but now he could. He tested his voice again, saying his own name

_“Aziraphale”_

He could speak, he must speak. Into his mind there came the thread of memory, the warp and woof of text, woven with meaning, a lifeline to cling to, the script of his knowledge, before this place. He clung to it, inching along, pulling him back to himself. Lines unwound before him, the dotted staves of music, the black ink of prose, the scansion of poetry, its neat rows unreeling in his mind. He grabbed at the unwitting words, and hung on, coaxing them out of the inside of himself and speaking them aloud, making them real, coalescing every syllable and setting it in the air, where each word hung, a solace and a saving grace.

**************************************************************************************************************************

**Mayfair, January 2020**

_It seemed that out of battle I escaped_

_Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped_

_Through granites which titanic wars had groined_

_Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned_

_Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred._

_Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared_

_With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,_

_Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless._

_And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall -_

_By his dead smile, I knew we stood in hell…_

_…I am the enemy you killed my friend_

_I knew you in the dark: for so you frowned_

_Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed…_

Crowley sat upright in bed, wide awake suddenly, gasping for breath a little as he came to consciousness. Another weird awakening. His mind was full of words that he fully believed had no business being there.

This had been happening increasingly frequently over the last few weeks. Waking with words running through his mind that were almost certainly not his. Yesterday it had been something about measuring out his life in coffee spoons, and there had been a question:

_Do I dare, disturb the Universe?_

Well, that definitely didn’t sound like him. He dared to disturb the universe all the time, it was practically in his job description. He had thought to Google it, and it turned out to be another bloody _poem_ , written by some bloke whose name, he had noticed with some amusement, was an anagram of toilets. It wasn’t that he was against poetry per se, it was just that some of it was rather less than demonic. That one about the autumn had been rather good, actually. He liked the bit about the apples and the flowers for the bees. He hoped Beelzebub didn’t have access to his browsing history, it didn’t look good, that sort of thing, in a demon. Perhaps he was losing his marbles. Six thousand years, give or take a few, all alone on this crazy planet was enough to drive any supernatural entity round the twist.

He had been feeling it rather lately, the fact that he was alone. Of course he wasn’t _lonely_ , demons didn’t get _lonely_ , he was just tired, he told himself, and experiencing a kind of bone-deep lassitude about everything that he was finding extremely hard to shake off. This latest poem though, rather unsettling. He plumped up the pillow beneath his head and closed his eyes, sinking back into sleep. If there were further disturbances, he thought, as his world began to blur at the edges, he would try sleeping on the ceiling again.

_Darkling I listen: and, for many a time_

_I have been half in love with easeful Death,_

_Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,_

_To take into the air my quiet breath:_

_Now more than ever seems it rich to die,_

_To cease upon the midnight with no pain…_

Crowley shifted in his sleep, letting out a small sound that might have indicated some distress. He turned over, settled and his limbs slackened as slumber pulled him deeper once more.

_Do you know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember_

_Nothing?_

_I remember_

_Those are the pearls that were his eyes_

_Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?..._

_….Burning, burning, burning, burning,_

_O Lord Thou pluckest me out_

_O Lord Thou pluckest….burning…_

Crowley cried out as he woke. He was sweating and there were tears in his eyes. This was getting unpleasant. That last one had been particularly on the nose. Maybe some idiot of a literature loving human nearby was having a protracted existential breakdown and broadcasting their fucked-up poetic self-examination sessions loud enough for a sensitive demon such as himself to pick up on. If that was the case, he hoped they found a decent therapist, and soon. Or moved out, that would be better. If he could track the fucker down, he might nudge them in that direction, or intimidate them, or something. He certainly didn’t want to carry on like this. Couldn’t an agent of ultimate evil get a decent night’s kip without being traumatised by some oddball with an ode fixation?

He stomped to his computer and had a look. The earlier one was a beautiful and understandably bleak bit of verse from the First World War, by a soldier who had been killed just before the end of it, poor sod. He remembered that one, it had been extremely unpleasant, and absolutely nothing to do with him. The next, the autumn guy again, getting all maudlin about a bird over too much wine, ‘blushful hippocrene’ indeed. The last one, all that stuff about God and burning, was old Toilets again. If he could find that bastard, he’d tell him all about God and bloody burning. Oh, he noted, he was dead, all to the good, he probably knew exactly what the burning was like by now, he thought, wryly.

The truth was that, as well as experiencing these sleep disturbances, waking with alien words dancing about his head, Crowley had been feeling increasingly off over the last few months. He wasn’t clear at all when it had all started, but as time went on, he had begun to feel that for some reason, something, somewhere was very wrong indeed. He continued to do his work, stirring up social media, setting people against each other on the reality tv shows he had encouraged various production teams across the world to come up with, spreading irritation and tech fuckups and minor annoyances as he always had. Everything he did though, absolutely paled into insignificance in comparison with what the humans were doing to themselves at the moment. Crowley was regularly impressed in an appalled kind of way at what people had been inflicting on themselves and each other over the past few months.

He had received no less than seven commendations for Brexit. None of it, not one jot, was any of his doing. They had thought that one up all by themselves, and he had watched with a kind of sick amusement as the inhabitants of the UK had campaigned and then voted their way into a kind of collective mass suicide attempt that was inevitably going to destroy the country he had become accustomed to living in, slowly and by attrition, over the years to come. He had made it his personal mission to screw things up for one of their most prominent MPs, a man whom he despised for representing the very worst of fat-headed, hateful, white male privilege. Nothing Crowley had attempted had affected this man’s upward career trajectory in any way, shape or form. The whole, large man in an ill-fitting suit caught on a zipwire waving pathetically small Union Jack flags thing had not resulted in the expected wave of ridicule. His numerous horrible verbal faux pas against virtually every minority you could care to think of had only resulted in an increase in his popularity. His pathetic showing during the recent election campaign, including a disastrous interview with a prominent BBC political correspondent on a park bench had not dented his reputation one iota. Not long after this event, the nation went to the polls and voted this walking example of fuckwittery into office as their Prime Minister. Crowley was genuinely staggered. What did people think they were doing? Was there something in the water that he didn’t know about? Had everyone gone stark, raving bonkers?

Things were no better further afield. The United States were currently actively revelling in a regime headed by a man so colossally ignorant, so overwhelmingly odious that he resembled nothing so much as a pile of orange dog shit topped with some old cheese shavings. The things that he had suggested during his time in office had genuinely shocked Crowley, and he was a demon. Building a ridiculous wall at the border with another country was almost laughable, and much he said and did was inane enough to be endlessly amusing. But then Crowley saw the news footage of small children separated from their parents at that border and held in a compound in _cages_ , and his blood had run even colder than usual. This was proper evil, the kind of thing that was too insidious and subtle for Hell. And it, and similar things were happening in every country, just about, all over the world. Crowley was left with the feeling that something was missing, the world was out of balance, and he didn’t like it.

***

_It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way…_

Crowley sighed and stretched his hands above his head as he lay back on his mattress. Sleeping on the ceiling, and various walls, hadn’t helped at all. Another night, another dose of literary bullshit. He actually knew this one, having met the author in question. And for once, given the current climate, old Charlie had it spot on. At least a bit of prose was a change from all the increasingly dark and frankly, _ominous_ poetry that he had been on the receiving end of recently, beamed in from whatever deranged mind was causing all of this. He sighed and swung his legs on to the floor. He might as well give up on sleeping for now and go get this book on his phone and have a read, take his mind off how bloody awful he was feeling all the time these days.

***

When they finally came to release him, Aziraphale was busy singing Contrapunctus XI of Bach’s The Art of Fugue, taking all the lines himself, simultaneously. He did not notice the grind of the old door opening until the rush of the incoming dimension flooded his form with light. He squinted across at the two soldiers who had come for him, closing most of his many eyes. They helped him out and fetched his corporation, waiting next to him until he had settled his true form inside it.

“Right, pal, back to barracks for you.”

His first impression on entering the corporeal world again was that there was something not quite right. He glanced down at himself. He was dressed in the Heavenly Force fatigues, as he had expected to be. His body was familiar in part, his thick, strong legs, broad shoulders and muscular arms were all in place. But the pleasing weight of his rounded middle, that which he wore to be approachable and good for a cuddle, should one be needed, was much reduced.

Aziraphale liked his corporation and regarded it as _comfortable_. He had cuddled humans in distress when they had needed it countless times during his years on Earth. Through his time in Soho he had been called many things, Mr Fell formally, Ezra to the few people he counted as friends and neighbours but also _Auntie_ and _Mother_ , by a succession of scared young men who had needed his help, back in the day, when people who dared to love unconventionally were persecuted under the full force of the law for their natural affections. Aziraphale had always tried to make his shop and his person a refuge for the vulnerable, welcoming them there and seeing to it that they found their way to him when they needed somewhere to go. He would never know what it was to be a parent, but they were all his children, in a way, and he loved them all. This change, undoubtedly insisted upon by his superiors, saddened him. It was another crime against the integrity of his person and it made him feel diminished, both physically, and in spirit. He would not let it break him, just as he had not been broken by the Void. He lifted his head, firmed his chin and nodded to his two companions, indicating that he was ready to leave.

The soldiers took his arms and the three started walking. Aziraphale was unsteady at first but six thousand years in a body equips a being with muscle memories, so it was not long before he was stepping out with his old confidence. He had sworn to himself that he was going to be brave and stick to all he had determined upon during his long incarceration. Most of all, he was going to keep his faith in Crowley and the love he felt for him. Even if the demon never remembered him again, he was going to make sure that he was always true to his deepest feelings from now on and for the rest of his life. Much to the dismay of the two soldiers who accompanied him, he sang as he walked, a funny little song he remembered from another lifetime, sitting in the Bentley next to Crowley, pretending not to be charmed by the idiosyncratic singing voices emanating from somewhere inside the car. He was never quite sure whether there actually were speakers fitted in the venerable Bentley, or whether Crowley simply expected the sound to issue forth, so it did:

_…But with you by my side_

_I can do anything_

_When we swing_

_We hang past right or wrong._

“Can you stop doing that, mate?”

“I can, yes, but I don’t think I’m going to, if it’s all the same to you.”

_I’ll do anything for you_

_Anything you want me to_

_I’ll do anything for you_

_Oh, I’m sticking with you_

_Oh I’m sticking with you…_

***

Anpiel had spent much of her morning on the level where the Thrones were working, delivering messages, and at one point, listening to and nodding sympathetically throughout a long complaint about how the SeraphTech Support Team never answered their phones when the system was down and that when they did deign to answer, they only ever told people to unplug the Aethernet cable, wait twenty seconds, then reconnect it again, as if that wasn’t the first thing everybody did as a matter of course. She was making her way down past the Heavenly barracks when she heard a voice call her name. She looked round and saw a soldier running towards her, a piece of paper held in his outstretched hand.

“Anpiel! So glad I caughtcha. You deliver messages for people, right?”

Anpiel knew this soldier slightly, one of the Principalities. He was normally only ever seen in company with another angel who looked very similar to him, but today he was on his own. His face looked careworn and she picked up on a deep sadness emanating from him.

Nanael was indeed not in the best of spirits. Just as Nithael was bereft without him on Earth, so he too was missing his brother. He had spentmuch of his time since the other angel left just moping in the mess room. The decision to deprive him of his soulmate had made him rather resentful of the army establishment. Like many people tangentially complicit in a repressive regime through their work, he had not noticed the unfairness and inequalities of Heaven until one of them started to affect him. Now he was angry and sad, ripe, did he but know it, for recruitment to the nascent rebel cause, a groundswell of support for which was currently growing amidst the offices and corridors of the celestial realm.

“Hello sir,” Anpiel replied, brightly, “I take messages, yes. To whom do you wish your message to be delivered?”

“Well, that’s the problem, see. It’s my mate Nithael, ‘e’s on Earth, been there a while now. I’m Nanael, we’ve been together for ages, and I…well,” he looked at his feet for a minute, clearly embarrassed, “…I miss him, you know.… D’you do deliveries there, the Earth I mean?”

Anpiel narrowed her eyes. The little group of angels who had sworn to work together to help Aziraphale had been stymied by the simple fact that they had no idea where he was. Rumours on the subject abounded. If they could add one of the Heavenly Host’s soldiery as one of their allies, they might be able to get the inside information that they needed to assist the beleaguered Cherub, even if that only meant letting him know that he wasn’t without supporters.

“I may be able to help you, Nanael, dear, if you don’t mind me calling you that. If I get this message to your Nithael, perhaps you might think about helping me in return? I need some information ”

Nanael looked at her, his brown eyes, ringed a little with red, honest and sincere.

“Anything, I’ll do anything. I just wanna let ‘im know I haven’t forgotten ‘im, an’ if you can get me some gen. on ‘im, I’d be ever so grateful. What is it that you wanna know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think. More angels coming next chapter folks!
> 
> The poetry and music referred to in this chapter is:  
> Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen
> 
> A short reference to The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock by Old Toilets, or T.S. Eliot
> 
> A short reference to Ode to Autumn by John Keats
> 
> Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
> 
> Part of A Game of Chess and The Fire Sermon from The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot
> 
> The opening of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
> 
> Contrapunctus XI from The Art of the Fugue by J.S. Bach is a fiendishly complicated triple fugue of three voices from the previous variation in the work, inverted. Aziraphale likes a challenge.
> 
> I’m sticking with you by the Velvet Underground


	7. He’s having highly organised hallucinations comparable to an experience of actual life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is in the army now, he doesn't much like it. Meanwhile, there is a meeting of like-minded angels with dissent on their minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to my splendid and wonderful Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) you are the best petal! And to my adorable friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) happy wedding anniversary you two and thanks for all your support.
> 
> I hope you are all keeping safe and enjoying the sunshine. As ever, kudos and comments make me smile and cheer me up.
> 
> See the end notes for more details about my lovely angel OCs!

**Heaven, March 2020**

Life for Aziraphale in the army was unspeakably tedious. He remained isolated. It was clear that everyone had been told not to speak to him, and quite a few of the Privates and Sergeants that he passed when he moved around the military compound gave him looks of open disgust. He assumed that these attitudes on the parts of his fellow soldiers were owing to the fact that he had been involved in stopping the war, or because he was known to have an association with a demon. He refused to feel shame for either fact about himself. The occasional face that he caught looking at him was more sympathetic, or simply curious.

One surprising thing had happened very early on. He had been waiting to be given his orders in the passageway outside Cerviel’s office when he had been tapped on the shoulder by a heavily-built angel whom he thought he recognised. When he turned and looked at him properly, he realised that it was one of the Principalities who had appeared in his bookshop to take him into custody. He had glanced both ways to see if anyone was watching, ascertained that the corridor was empty and leaned in to speak directly into Aziraphale’s ear:

“’Zir’phale, just wanted to say… ‘M sorry… about, you know, what ‘appened.”

Aziraphale regarded him with some scepticism but then, noticing the shadows beneath his eyes and the expression of what looked like sincere contrition mixed with sadness on his face, his own features had softened into a tentative smile for the other soldier, who had continued to speak.

“Sorry, mate. Better go, shouldn’t be seen, talkin’, whatever, with, you know…” and he had hastened off. The apology had lifted his spirits somewhat, it was good to know that not everyone regarded him as hateful.

His duties were both dull and repetitive, deliberately so, he suspected, to teach him what his superiors in Heaven had decided was to be his lesson. Cerviel had been curt and economical with his words when he had delivered the instructions, no time was wasted on courtesy and there was no warmth whatever in his voice.

There was endless cleaning: boots to polish, webbing to scrub and then whiten, buttons to shine, floors to scrub and mop. Swords required to be re-tempered and sharpened, shields rubbed with special polish until they shone. There were breaks for food and drink, they didn’t starve him, but he was required to eat alone. The food was simply awful, the whole experience made so much worse by the fact that he had acute memories of the delightful food that he had eaten whilst on Earth. He and Crowley had rarely stinted themselves when they dined out, and the recollection of that last meal at the Ritz was very clear indeed in his memory. For an epicurean angel who appreciated delicate portions of fine food, vintage wines and impeccably aged spirits, plates of stew, contents unspecified, soldiers for the feeding of, biscuits, brown, and cups of stewed tea the colour of a London house brick, were a bit of a come down, to say the least.

Then there were the interminable kit inspections, often at extremely short notice, where he was expected to display a seemingly random selection of clothes, weaponry, and other miscellaneous items according to some bizarre code that he wasn’t quite clear on. Cerviel would appear in the tiny room he had been allocated, away from the other quarters, and stride up and down officiously, taking exception to tiny flaws in how he had folded or presented things, leading to supposedly corrective punishments that consisted of more mind-numbing duties. It was petty and ridiculous and Aziraphale was growing extremely weary of it. He suspected that it wasn’t actually possible for him to get it all right, that there would always be something that he would be pulled-up about, and that this, too, was part of his rehabilitation, a part designed to break his spirit and make him pliant to the terrible will of Gabriel and Michael. He gritted his teeth and endured it all, playing late Beethoven string quartets over in his head to distract himself from his own irritation with the whole set-up.

When he wasn’t cleaning, polishing and sharpening, he was expected to drill. Drilling went on endlessly, and unlike the usual practice of close flying in formation with a platoon of other angels, he flew his patterns all alone. His solitary figure could be seen, swooping up and down, executing smart turns then flying all the way back to where he had begun, over and over, and over and over again. It was while he drilled that he was at liberty to do most of his thinking. He still occupied his mind with the best of human art while he worked, going over prose and poetry in his mind, or humming pieces of music, but it was when he was ‘air bashing’ as the soldier angels referred to it, that he was at his greatest liberty to declaim or sing, doing so freely into the rarefied environment of the empyrean.

While he was working or flying, his thoughts were often of Crowley. He refused to let himself wonder what the demon was doing now, finding it too painful to contemplate a world in which Crowley no longer remembered him and their time together. What he did do was recall every occasion that the angel and demon had spent together from that first meeting in the Garden, to all the rendezvous they had made during the eleven years of plotting up to and including the failed apocalypse and the averting of the Final War. He rationed himself to treasuring a memory every once in a while, examining each expression and gesture he remembered that had graced Crowley’s beautiful countenance, scrutinising them in minute detail from the eidetic vaults of his capacious mind. Many of them made him smile, some caused anguish, others actually brought tears to his eyes but he flinched from none of them, recalling them in their entirety as the months rolled by.

He had so much to regret. Some memories of his own conduct made him want to curl up with shame. Two things there were that he clung to, which consoled him a little. First, the fact that Crowley was alive and safe, which was of paramount importance and an enormous source of comfort. The other was the glimmer of hope offered by Gabriel that he might yet be allowed to return to the Earth he loved, to live amongst the humans again and have a chance, perhaps, to catch sight of his titian haired love occasionally. He knew this would be painful but better, by far, than the prospect of never seeing him again, or spending the rest of eternity in this sterile, awful place.

***

_In the Garden, their first meeting, and the conversation that had blossomed between them. He had never thought to be afraid or to smite when the huge serpent had metamorphosed beside him into the most stunning creature he had ever seen. His first impulse had been to console this bright being and after receiving consolation himself, to protect him. They had stood side by side, facing the world, watching the fall of the first rain, smelling petrichor given off by Eden’s soil floating up to them through the warm air._

***

**Mayfair, March 2020**

Crowley was dreaming. Lately, the poetry telegraphed into his sleeping mind had eased off a bit, although it did still happen occasionally. What had replaced it was vivid dreams. Some of these concerned flying, and made very little sense to him at all, but now he was somewhere he recognised immediately, somewhere he hadn’t consciously thought about in years. Everything he could see was pin sharp, the colours fresh and vibrant. His feelings at the time came back to him in a rush, the only strange thing being a distortion in his field of vision every time he tried to turn his head to the right:

_The rain had stopped, he stood on top of a wall, looking out onto an endless desert. He remembered this clearly, one of the most pivotal events of his life, after the Fall. He had been alone, of course he had. But he seemed to recall now a conversation, the voice blurring in from the static that appeared to be permanently inside his head when he thought about anything in the past these days:_

_“… better get down from here and find my sandals. It’s more than my life’s worth if Gabriel sees me without them on.”_

_“What? The Arch-arsehole Gabriel tells you off if you don’t wear your sandals, does he? What a knob!”_

_“You mustn’t speak about him that way, Crawley, it’s not respectful. But yes, he says that going about in bare feet is not dignified, and that I should comport myself in a way that is becoming in an angel… I like walking on the grass in bare feet though, it tickles, and it feels so nice.”_

_The sweet voice grew softer and became wistful._

_“There’s just such a big gap you see…”_

_“A what, now?”_

_“A gap, between the things that I_ **_like_ ** _doing and that feel loving and right like, erm, giving away my, um, you know, and walking on the grass in bare feet, stroking the animals, chatting to Eve and making flower crowns with, erm, I mean, for her, and the things that I know I_ **_should_ ** _be doing, like looking stern and brandishing my sword and standing steadfast and all that kind of thing…”_

_“Why can’t you just, I don’t know, do the_ **_should_ ** _things when you’re being watched, and the_ **_nice_ ** _stuff when you know you aren’t?”_

_“Because that would be disobedient, Crawley, I have to do what I’m told, I’m an angel!”_

_“I don’t see what’s so bad about it..”_

_“Well, you wouldn’t, you’re a demon.”_

_“No, I mean, all the things you’ve just mentioned, they’re all good things, doing stuff like that doesn’t make you a bad person, if you ask me.”_

_There had been a silence while this was considered. He had spoken again._

_“There’s nothing inherently wrong in any of the things you’re talking about. In fact, although I hate to say it, they are_ **_good_ ** _. Talking to Eve, you say, that’s a nice thing to have done. She likes a chat, Eve, and none of the other angels talk to her, they’re all too busy counselling Adam, I’ve seen them.”_

_“Yes, she does like to talk, and she was worried, she asked me…”_

_“Worried? What did she have to be worried about? Now she has plenty to worry about I reckon, but not back then. No worries in the perfect garden.”_

_“If you would just let me finish, Crawley. She asked me if I thought Adam liked her for her personality and not just because she had nice, erm…”_

_He seemed to remember shapely white hands cupped at chest level to indicate Eve’s bounteous assets in that department._

_“What? You told her she had nice, erm…?”_

_“_ **_No!_ ** _Not me, it’s what he said to her, Adam. He’s not the most sensitive when he gives compliments, it all tends to concentrate on what you might call the poor girl’s corporeal form. I tried to reassure her, told her that of course he likes her for herself, just that he isn’t that good at using his words. He can be rather a chump, if I’m honest.”_

_“See? That was a good thing, choosing to talk to Eve and make her feel better. It may not be strictly be within your remit as an Angel of the Lord, but that doesn’t stop it from being a good thing to do.”_

_“Really? You really think so? Oh! Oh, that does make me feel so much better. Thank you. I had better go now, probably best if I’m not seen chatting.”_

_“Yeah, me too, things to do, people to tempt, you know how it is.”_

_“Indeed. How did you get into the garden by the way, I didn’t actually see you come through the gate. I was guarding it quite well at the time, I believe.”_

_“Gate? Ha! I didn’t come through the gate. Do you think I’m stupid? No, I just came up through the ground straight into the garden.”_

_“So there wasn’t much point in me guarding it at all, then?”_

_“Nah, not really. Like I was going to just walk up to the Eastern Gate and get smote, smitten, smited – whatever. You’ve probably done more good with your other stuff than you ever did with the guarding thing, to be honest. Anyway, I’m off, see you around maybe, Angel…”_

Had he spoken to an angel that day? He couldn’t remember for the life of him. He drifted on, turning in his sleep and the memory slipped away.

***

_He had known it was wrong, his grief lodged in his chest as he squinted up at the heavy sky, hearing the first ominous rumbles of storm surge roll above him. His throat had felt tight, words weighed heavy as he forced them out, and nodded, tight-lipped when Crawley’s flame bright voice asked the questions he was forbidden to. Crawley, his conscience, angry when he could not be, showing him another way to think. Provocative, challenging, familiar._

***

Crowley awoke, actually growling. He’d been back there in Mesopotamia, and his sleeping mind remembered the rage and the gnawing unhappiness. Someone in the crowd had been speaking to him about the Plan. He wondered fleetingly how they knew, and why he had been so very angry with them. He’d been angry at _Her_ , he remembered that, and, once he’d realised, very sad about the unicorns. Someone had told him about that, too, it had all been rather embarrassing at the time, admitting that he didn’t know why you needed two of them. It had been gently explained to him, there had been blushing. On whose face though, he couldn’t quite recall.

***

_Aziraphale remembered Rome, how he had been playing that lonely game in the tavern. Then there was a flash of red when he looked up and it was Crowley, his previous mane of beautiful hair cut into the vulnerable curve of his nape, the front of it curled elaborately against his forehead, and was that a silver laurel wreath circling his head? How ridiculous. How very Crowley. He had hastened to stand, moving to greet him, hesitant at first when he saw the stormy expression on the demon’s face. His own face had flushed and he had felt wrong footed at Crowley’s obvious amusement at the notion that he might be equipped to tempt anybody. Crowley had agreed to accompany him nonetheless and had declared that he had enjoyed the evening at the end of it, even though he ate little, pulled exaggerated faces at the one oyster he did try and appeared gloomy throughout. This was the occasion that taught Aziraphale that Crowley did not resemble what had been drilled into him that demons were like at all. His low mood was, he had explained, because of what he had witnessed when sent to spend time with the current Emperor, Caligula. The man was disgusting, according to Crowley, although he would not say what he had done to merit such an appraisal, muttering that he didn’t want to talk about it. Aziraphale had heard the details later and wondered over the delicacy of Crowley’s sensibilities. He had been surprised at the time by how his heart had lurched and beaten faster when he had spotted Crowley, a pattern that had quickly established itself into a habit after this._

***

Crowley barely surfaced from his dream _Rome_ , there was little he wanted to think back on from that time, it had been distressing and he couldn’t wait to get away once he had finished his visit to the Imperial court. He recalled the anger and depression that had followed his time with Caligula. He had got very drunk, he remembered, the brown wine had hardly been the best but not in any way as nasty as that oyster he had tried. Ugh. Like eating cold snot, a very poor reward for the increasingly damp struggle with the shell using an entirely inadequate knife. He had no idea at all why he had done that. There had been laughter, and something that day had marginally brightened his foul mood, but be couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was.

**************************************************************************************************************************

Crowley was in a bad way. He spent most of his time in his flat these days. There seemed little point in going out to cause mischief when the human population appeared to be committing all kinds of evil acts without him lifting a finger. The commendations kept coming, and people continued to behave badly, free from any censure or punishment for their hateful speech or acts.

Katie Hopkins remained her odious self, Nigel Farage was, unfortunately, still breathing and that lunatic in the United States who had spread the rumour about gay frogs proliferating from allegedly poisoned water was still free to broadcast unimpeded his repulsive views on his regular television show to a public depraved enough to lap them up unquestioned. Now there was the threat of a viral epidemic being reported and the media were cheerfully turning it into a three ring circus, causing health service personnel and vulnerable people no end of trouble and anxiety. There had been panic buying of supplies and ugly scenes and Crowley was dreading the inevitable attribution of this to his activities by Head Office when, as ever, it was nothing of his doing.

In a crowded supermarket, he had found himself in an aisle full of people and had felt the first stirrings of panic as he realised he could move neither forwards nor backwards. A woman behind him had run into his ankles with one of those outsized baby buggies that well-to-do upper middle class people seemed to insist on having, and he had actually turned and _snarled_ at her. He had been horrified at the look of genuine terror that had appeared on her face and been forced to alter her immediate memory, a rush of shame coursing through him as he pulled up his hand to snap. He had seemed to hear a soft voice in his head: ‘ _really, my dear_ ’ and this had served to further disorientate him. He had immediately gone on to send a minor blessing over to the woman, and hastened from the shop as soon as he was able, cursing under his breath and wondering since when he was actually capable of such things. He was a demon, he shouldn’t be _blessing_ people, it wasn’t supposed to be part of his skill set. As he walked back to where he had illegally parked the Bentley, he felt violently at odds with himself. Part of him continued to rage, insisting that he disliked people and that they deserved what they got for getting in his way. The other part told him that it was his truth that he loved people for the splendid dichotomy of their saintly devilishness and that they had been worth saving, worth all the trouble, fear and inconvenience that he had been put to in order to achieve that end. This threw him into an anxiety spiral so intense that he had been forced to stop and put his head between his knees, breathing heavily until the world ceased its spinning. He hadn’t ever saved anybody, but there was a part of his mind that very much insisted that he had, he just couldn't remember when or how. After this incident, he stopped going out, preferring to stay in his flat where things seemed a little less overwhelming.

Crowley had always been a bit highly strung, in fact, that was an understatement, he was a demon that would have put the most finely tuned violin string to shame. But these days it was much more than just being of a nervous disposition, he positively vibrated with anxiety much of the time, and felt that he had gone from being quite the fiend about town to a shambling mess of quaking uncertainty. He slept a lot these days, something he had always done when he felt at odds with the world. Each time he woke, reeling from the series of vivid dreams he had been having, he felt more and more disorientated and peculiar.

Waking was difficult, for as soon as he was fully conscious, he became gripped by what felt like a low resonance of dread. Everything was not as it should be. There was a subtle but pervasive sense of unease that seemed to permeate his environment. He trembled sweatily beneath the covers on his bed yet still found it hard to leave their shelter. Once he had scraped together the courage to arise, shower and get dressed, he prowled around his flat aimlessly, unable to settle. He couldn’t concentrate on anything. Television annoyed him with its inanities, he couldn’t make sense of any book he tried to read, the sentences not hanging together as he tried to parse their meaning, and music degenerated into a series of meaningless noises that had to be shut off before his frustration at their lack of tonality became painful.

The oddest thing was a kind of mental drift. When he looked at the things around him in his flat, he knew in his rational mind what they were, but the words used to describe them no longer made sense to him. There was a disconnect between, say, the word ‘table’ and the wooden object upon which he placed the glass full of his 30 year old malt whisky. Words sounded strange when he said them, and no longer contained the immutability of meaning that he knew they ought. He found himself with no way of describing the world around him, and in the absence of meaningful labels, the things that he saw that should have been ordinary and mundane, took on a sinister appearance. The furniture in his flat loomed at him, his plants writhed and leered, everything around him was potentially hostile. When he looked in the mirror, the frightened face that peered back in no way reflected his feelings about the self that he knew existed behind that facade. It was familiar, but not anything that was connected with the actuality of who he was. This disassociation was peculiar, intense and terrifying.

He returned to bed, feeling diminished and vulnerable. He knew he hadn’t always been like this, but he could no longer imagine a different state of being. He had started welcoming the dreams, there was something about them that was almost addictive, a sense of familiarity and the possibility of a comfort and warmth that was always just out of reach. He closed his eyes and let sleep take him, hoping that this time he might be able to see what it was that was perpetually just outside of his line of vision, and talk with the presence that he felt was warmly by him but could not quite identify. That, he felt, was the key to everything, if he could just reach out and touch whatever it was, his problems and anxieties would be resolved, and the world would make sense to him again.

**************************************************************************************************************************

_Wessex had been damp. The whole assignment a difficult one for an angel. He had spent his time trying to steer arrogant and boorish knights to do good deeds when all they were interested in was telling tall stories about things that they might, or more likely, might not have done with regard to miscellaneous dragons and maidens, and looking at themselves in the mirror, endlessly. The atmosphere of machismo was oppressive and the prevalence of the male gaze at the unfortunate women of the court had made him most uncomfortable. It had been perpetually cold, smoky and draughty in the castle and the food was largely enormous lumps of meat, unseasoned and served with zero finesse. There was no conversation because the women did not eat with them and he was absolutely unimpressed with the whole notion of courtly love and its concomitant institutionalised pining. Especially when the men concerned were all married with children.He was not surprised when the whole thing imploded after the unfortunate episode with the King’s wife and his best friend. The entire set-up was flawed as far as Aziraphale was concerned. Rule by personality cult rarely had any political longevity in his experience. The one bright spark in the whole project had been seeing Crowley, looking devilishly handsome in his black armour, and even that hadn’t ended well. He had stomped back to his chilly tent wondering if he had done the right thing and wishing that his duty did not preclude him from spending more time with the one person who understood him and with whom he could at least laugh at the ridiculous situations they were both put in at times by the demands of their respective organisations.He had been lonely and had wasted the chance to remedy that, even if it was just for a short interlude. He had been horrified to examine his innermost feelings only to recognise that the spark of pure resentment that had ignited within him was against an existence where Crowley was Fallen and therefore forbidden him as a companion. He had spent the rest of that day in prayer, struggling with guilt and the overwhelming feeling that he was a very bad angel indeed._

***

A demon, dreaming again, was back in Wessex. Crowley had never been so cold and miserable in his incorporated existence. Horses hated him, his buttocks hurt from trying to ride the bastard things and full plate armour chafed like buggery. He was also frustrated and annoyed. He had devised a plan and that plan, clever and economical in its simplicity, had been rejected. Some people were holier than thou dickheads who needed to take that stick out of their arse and wise up to the practicalities of the situation. Who they were and what the situation was, he couldn’t actually remember, but that did not lessen the veracity of what he was thinking about them. Arseholes, annoying sanctimonious pricks they were. Whoever they were. And they could just fuck off and the horse they rode in on could fuck off too. And he would tell them that. When he could remember their name. Or that of their horse.

***

**The Akashic Records Repository, Accessioning Room, Heaven, March 2020**

In an obscure, out of the way back room of the enormous inter-dimensional records repository of the celestial realm, the inaugural meeting of SOCK had just commenced. As is common with secretive rebel organisations, the decision concerning what name the group should go under had occasioned a good deal of discussion. It had to be something that could be mentioned in conversation without arousing suspicion. Heavenly beings are no less susceptible to the lure of the clandestine than human ones, so all members felt a thrill of excitement at the notion of having a special name for their group. Even though they were genuinely committed to the serious nature of their endeavour and each member fully understood the risks they were taking, they were still a little giddy at their own daring and the portentous significance of the acronym that they had devised to give a name to their collective effort to help Aziraphale. Various options had been suggested and rejected as being either too long, impossible to say or capable of being interpreted as vulgar, until they had been able to reach a consensus.

They had eventually plumped for Save Our Cherub Kin, or SOCK. Something they felt could be casually mentioned without anyone thinking it odd. They were probably mistaken about that as most of the Host didn’t actually wear foot coverings of any kind unless they were in an Earthly corporation. However, this did not deter them from celebrating their own cleverness. It remains the case that, however sneaky angels think they are being, they are creatures that gravitate to the light and are constitutionally not very good at being underhand.

They were able to meet in private in one of the workrooms of the Archives as most angels were ignorant of the location. The room where incoming records were sorted out from the parlous state in which they invariably arrived at the repository, angels being notoriously bad at filing, was known to very few people. In attendance were Harahel, Raduarial, Pravuil, Jophiel, Cherubiel, Prince Angel of the Cherubim and their inseparable soul mate, Miniel, another Cherub. They had decided to meet after Anpiel had spoken with Nanael and agreed to take his letter to Nithael at Aziraphale’s bookshop on Earth. She had rushed to tell Harahel what she had found out but he had had shushed her immediately, thrusting a note in her hand and waggling his eyebrows to indicate that they shouldn’t talk in case they were being watched or listened to somehow. The note had directed her to contact Pravuil, who had seen to it that invitations had been sent out to the three other angels it had been ascertained wanted to be involved and could be trusted to help formulate whatever plan might work best. Pravuil took the chair, being accustomed to directing meetings.

“Anpiel has managed to make contact with one of the Principalities,” she informed the other angels who sat around the work table, leaning forward in their eagerness to hear the news, “Anpiel, perhaps you can fill us in as to what you were told?”

Anpiel cleared her throat and looked around at the others seated around the table. The colour was high in her cheeks as she began to speak.

“Well, I was told that poor dear Aziraphale was sent to see Michael and then punished for refusing to fight, even though we all know that he did the right thing, don’t we?”

Everyone nodded and there were general mutterings along the lines of ‘yes’ and ‘absolutely, he did’. Pravuil signalled that Anpiel should continue.

“Oh, yes, sorry, I get so upset when I think about what they have done to our dear brother. Well, according to Nanael, they put him in this awful place called the _Void_.”

There were a few intakes of breath at this from those angels who knew what this meant. The strong musical voice of Cherubiel rang out.

“That is horrendous, it’s not supposed to be used any more as I understand it. It is truly iniquitous how they treat our dear brother. I thought there was an agreement that the Void was too strong a punishment.”

There were noises of assent and more nodding around the table at this. Anpiel looked at Cherubiel and they inclined their head, indicating that she should go on.

“So, poor Aziraphale was stuck in that dreadful place for four whole months. Then they let him out and now he’s serving in the army again. They decided that, because he is officially a Principality, he should go back to his regiment. Apparently the little love is stuck all on his own doing horrid chores and flying up and down all the time. He must be so unhappy away from his darling.”

Her lip wobbled and there were tears in her eyes. Pravuil, seeing her distress and knowing her emotional nature of old, took her hand kindly and then started to speak, taking over the job of conveying what the little angel had managed to winkle out of Nanael.

“Try not to fret too much, little one. The main worry is though, that, according to Nanael, they are planning to put Aziraphale to trial eventually. There will be a court martial in a few weeks. He heard this from one of the orderlies in Michael’s office, so the information is likely to be correct. I don’t know what this means for Aziraphale but it is known that Michael is furious with him, so it can’t be anything good.”

‘Hmm, that sounds serious,” said Raduarial, “What do you think we should do?”

“We must be very careful,” chimed in the soft voice of Jophiel, “take as few risks as possible. You know the stakes are very high. If we are discovered, both Gabriel and Michael will not be lenient towards anyone trying to help Aziraphale. I really don’t want to be drafting any more ominous documents for any of you.”

She looked round the table and caught everyone’s eye, reminding them of what had previously been planned for the wayward Cherub

Pravuil had been thinking the problem over in detail since she had heard the news and now set out her conclusions in her usual no-nonsense way.

“We need to build a case for Aziraphale and find witnesses to support him. I have an idea how we might deal with the situation but I don’t want to get our hopes up too high as yet, so I am going to discuss it with two lawyers I have found who are sympathetic to our cause before I bring it to this group. In the meantime, we need to amass as much positive evidence about Aziraphale’s activities on Earth as we can. We also need to speak with the Demon Crowley.”

‘Excuse me, Pravuil, if you don’t mind me saying but there’s a problem there,” interjected Harahel, in his soft, light voice, “I have been keeping an eye on the Demon Crowley since Aziraphale disappeared from the record and he has not been seen for quite a few weeks now. He was out and about for a while on his own, but since then there’s been, well, nothing.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

The bell-like voice of Cherubiel sounded loud in the shelf-lined room. Pravuil nodded and everyone looked at them as they continued.

“Miniel and I have spoken together and we would like to visit London and try to speak with the Demon Crowley. I knew Aziraphale well before he took up his duties on Earth, I think it would be best if we were to take on this duty. I also know the Earth and some of its customs, Miniel and I can meet with the demon and ask if he is prepared to help us.”

“That sounds good, Cherubiel, if you think you can persuade a demon to talk to you, go on ahead. His assistance would be invaluable if we can get it” said Pravuil.

“Ooh,” said Anpiel,enthusiastically, “you can take Nanael’s letter to Nithael when you are down there if you wouldn’t mind, Sir. And please, do give Crowley all our love, won’t you? The poor dear must be bereft.”

“I don’t know what we’ll find, darling,” said Miniel, “if he’s friendly, we’ll let him know

Anpiel smiled, her eyes glassy with her empathetic tears. She reached into her messenger bag and produced the letter, handing it to Miniel who tucked it into her robe, giving her pocket a reassuring pat for Anpiel’s benefit.

“Safe in here now, dearest Anpiel,” replied Miniel, in her warm, husky voice, “we will take the letter and report back to you everything we manage to find out as soon as we can,” she looked at Cherubiel affectionately, “right, lovely, let’s get going, no time to waste. We will dress in some suitable Earthly clothes and get down there right away.”

Cherubiel and Miniel stood, as if to leave but were intercepted by Harahel, who was keen to help.

“If you need it, My Lord, My Lady, I can show you where you need to be when you manifest yourselves in London,” he offered, looking up shyly at the taller angels.

“That would be most helpful, Harahel,” replied Cherubiel, graciously.

“Of course, My Lord,” he replied dipping his head timidly at being directly addressed by so splendid a Prince, “if you follow me, I will take you to the office and give you directions to exactly where the Demon Crowley lives in London. It’s a place called May Fair.”

Pravuil stood and raised her hand, “Cherubiel, Miniel, go with God, and may good fortune attend you. Please let Anpiel know when you return and we can convene another meeting.”

The rest of the group made similar valedictory noises as Cherubiel, Miniel and Harahel left together, heading for the Earth Observation level and then on to the Earth and London where they hoped to make an unconventional alliance with a demon for the greater good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> List of Uncanonical Angel Characters 
> 
> There is a rationale for the angel names I have chosen for this story. For anyone who is interested in this, here is a list of those who have appeared so far. I have given the names, the choir they belong to in brackets, what role they play in this story and then their traditional attributes in square brackets.
> 
> Radueriel (Dominion) - In charge of Heaven’s modern records storage [angel who oversees archives]  
> Harahel (Angel) - In charge of the Earth Observation Office [angel who oversees libraries]  
> Pravuil (Seraph) - In charge of the Akashic Archive for the whole of Heaven [angel who keeps all the records of Heaven]  
> Jophiel (Cherub) - In charge of the Heavenly Scriptorium [angel who oversees artistic endeavours]  
> Cherubiel (Cherub) - Prince Angel of the Cherubim [Head of the Cherubim]  
> Miniel (Cherub) - Senior cherub [angel who oversees the invocation of love]  
> Cerviel (Principality) - Field Marshall of the Heavenly Army [Head of the Principalities]  
> Nithael (Principality) - Captain in the Heavenly Army  
> Nanael (Principality - Captain in the Heavenly Army  
> Anpiel (Angel) - In-house messenger [angel who protects birds]


	8. Proceed to Earth immediately

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale remembers, Crowley continues to have uneasy dreams and puzzles over them. Meanwhile, two cherubs land in London on a mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go as ever to my incomparable Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) thank you dear for everything. Also to my wonderful friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds)
> 
> Please feed the starving writer with kudos and comments, all of which will be received with much gratitude. Enjoy the sunshine and keep well!

Aziraphale did as he was told. Aziraphale flapped his wings and flew his patterns. Aziraphale was full of longing. How much he had changed, how very much. Once he had been content with this place, it’s endless homogeneity, its pallid certainties. Now he longed for colour, the colours of the Earth, its people, plants and animals, for noise, the racket of human life, the rhythms of the city, for sensation, the touch of fabrics and the pages of books, the taste and textures of food and drink. He longed for variety, for choices, to exercise his will. He was transformed, no obedient angel now but a seething mass of want and need and questions. His current constraint grew painful, he missed Crowley with an ache that only grew stronger as time meandered by him.

A memory, he let it take him as he worked, a precious scrap of past time, it grew and burgeoned in his mind, a place, a voice, clothing, light, the explosion of taste. Sweet it was, to recall standing by a stage, the flood of grape juice across his eager tongue.

_“…this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this brave o’er hanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire: why it appeareth no other thing to me, than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours…”_

How apt it was, and again, the words struck home:

_“This above all: To thine own self be true…”_

Oh, he was trying, he really was, but it was hard sometimes.

_“…a little more than kin, and less than kind…”_

And there they were, his siblings, nailed to the staff of righteousness that Gabriel was always on about.

Sweet Will, how endlessly inventive, what a supple human brain. The words he wrote danced, his joyful poesy that mapped the human mind in all its contours. They seemed to pour out of him, the lines singing, his instinctive understanding of the music in vowels and consonants building towers of meaning from mere sound, dragging out emotions through his prose, iambs playful or sonorous, a master of manipulation of moods with just the scratching of his pen. It lit the angel up with the fresh zest of understanding. He loved it, all the… talking, and for a few secluded hours that speaking suspended all his fretfulness and fear. He could lose himself in a succession of moments and cease to be an angel, for a while, becoming just an audience for the magic of a play.

He had watched through ages as the humans made their art. How they fretted over their own condition, striving to better understand what stuff they were created of.On the stage they laid themselves bare, stretched and pulled themselves apart then made themselves anew to comprehend what made them tick and jump, love and dream, hate and kill. Preoccupation of the best of them, the hardest work there is. And then the others flocked to watch, and learn, the joy, pity and terror of it all, absorbed from the safety of the floor before the stage or the quiet sanctum of the stalls.

_“…the play’s the thing…”_

_It was. That, and the company. As he had stood on the rush strewn floor that afternoon, head tilted, attending to the talented young man upon the stage, he had felt that singular tingle rising up his spine and turned to see a perpendicular slash of black and scarlet prowling by him. The surge of warmth to his face had caught him out and called him a liar, when he felt moved to pretend he was not affected by the arrival of a demon in fashionable attire. The familiar push and pull of their discourse simply delighted him, and he had gazed at that beloved face, drinking in the russet and ebony of him, knowing that it might be a while before he could take such a pleasure again._

_What was art if not a series of questions? Another gift to the world from the Serpent of Eden, and how glad he was that it was so._

_He had gone back to see the play again, alone, on his return from Scotland. Its popularity astonished him, and all because he had asked a question with his eyes. Pressed against the other bodies in the pit, a flash of cerulean and white in a sea of eager viewers, he smiled and thought of Crowley and the work he must have done for this._

_He had sympathised with Hamlet, in the grip of his indecision. What was he but a scholar trapped in the dilemma of a soldier? Ever urged to do his duty, but incapable of action. Like Aziraphale so often found himself, at odds with Heaven. But he was no Hamlet, no prince on Earth. He felt so strongly that night his affinity with Crowley: they were merely two bit-part players standing in the wings, slightly baffled, waiting for their cue, watching the humans on the stage acting out their many dramas as they paced out the hours of their lives. Watching Hamlet, happy in the moment, loving the noble poetry, gasping at the fighting, he had a fleeting sense of kinship with poor Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, victims of their own ineptitude, just like he and Crowley, moved around by forces greater than themselves._

***

_“No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;_

_Am an attendant lord, one that will do_

_To swell a progress, start a scene or two,_

_Advise the Prince; no doubt an easy tool,_

_Deferential, glad to be of use,_

_Politic, cautious, and meticulous;_

_Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;_

_At times, indeed, almost ridiculous…”_

Sleeping head full of more intrusive poetry, Crowley plunged into another dream. He had no idea what had possessed him to go around London in 1601 touting for business for Will Shakespeare and one of the gloomiest and longest crimes against drama he had ever witnessed. The miracles and temptations he had sprinkled around the various boroughs had worked though, the wretched, miserable thing had become something of an overnight sensation.

Playgoing alone was something he had become used to since the earliest times. He loved a bit of theatre. From the Greeks declaiming in their painted linen prosopons and elevated buskins, to the laughing boys, their mouths stained red, faces pale with chalk, eyes painted like Egyptian noblemen, lacing each other into dresses behind the scenes at the Globe, he had enjoyed all of it. Such an opportunity for temptation, humans demonstrating what other worlds were out there to be taken using just their clever words in verse and prose.

He’d loved the old Globe too, before it had burnt down, and had spent many an hour standing in the crowd, quietly amused by the funny ones. He recalled a conversation with someone he half remembered meeting in the pit there, the words seeming to come into being through and despite a buzzing in his brain that felt like the airy vibrations of a swarm of flies.

_“Tails…I’m afraid it isn’t your day.”_

_“I rather think it is, actually.”_

_The voice was saying this with an almost unbearable fondness. It was warm, and he seemed to recall a blush stealing over his cheek. The voice continued to speak._

_“How long have we been doing this, to decide, I mean?”_

_“Oh, we’ve been spinning coins for as long as I remember doing this.”_

_“How long is that?”_

_He had grinned, knowing his next remark was calculated to irritate, and spoken it regardless._

_“I forget.”_

_There was a distinct huff from beside him._

_“I was thinking,” the voice had gone soft again, “I’m sorry about the unicorns. It would have been nice to have unicorns…”_

He had gone back, just to see, and the Globe was positively mobbed. He had spent an uncomfortable four hours wedged against a very smelly butcher from Camberwell whose expanse of flesh could not be persuaded to move despite the application of an extremely sharp demonic elbow to his flank on several occasions. The play had depressed him. One of the main lessons he had taken from it related to the two idiots who had been roped-in to spy on the miserable Danish Prince who couldn’t make his mind up and just get on with killing his uncle. They were a bit thick, and hapless and they were brutally killed when it was found out that they had betrayed their original ally. This fact was announced in an abrupt way with no fanfare right at the end: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Memo to self: never betray your employer if they are a Prince, they will not think twice about ordering your execution, however useful you have been to them up until that point. His dream-self realised that this lesson of the threat from Hell was important if he was to understand the point of view of someone, someone who was also important, but he could not remember who that person was.

***

Some memories were difficult, lift the stone and who knows what will be revealed, a writhing mass of pain and regret that cannot then be put away again. Loneliness leads to preoccupation. Aziraphale was helpless against the remembrance of things that burned, the pictures rose in his mind and it was scald, scald, scald.

_He loved St James’ Park, he had been coming here since the seventeenth century, shortly after it was landscaped by the King’s gardeners. He and Crowley had arranged a meeting here not that long after their rendezvous at The Globe. Even then Crowley had been drawn to things botanical and had wanted to see the arrangement of shrubs and flower beds. They had walked somewhat apart but had drifted together to remark on the exotic animals, then a fashionable accoutrement of Jacobean London. The elephant had looked mournful, the camels furious and the crocodiles had kept their own counsel, their grins matching Crowley’s as he made some sly comment about the King’s purpose in keeping such ravenous creatures. Crowley claimed another time that the reputation of the Park in the later sixteen hundreds for acts of lechery was entirely his doing, although the young men of London had never required much temptation to lust as far as Aziraphale could see.Crowley also seemed to have a love/hate relationship with the waterfowl in the Park. He adored annoying the ducks, but the pelicans rather alarmed him and he steered clear of them for the most part. Aziraphale rather concurred with this sentiment having seen one devour a pigeon whole once, the frightened creature’s eyes clearly visible within the larger fowl’s capacious beak before it closed with a snap and the smaller bird was seen no more._

_It was with a light heart he had set out that day, humming a rondo by Brahms he had heard not that long ago at a delightful salon concert in Germany. He had tied the delicate silk tartan cravat beneath his chin with a flourish, tucking the ends of it in beside the lapels of his velvet waistcoat, a new acquisition and one of which he was already inordinately pleased. The fabric was rich and soft, a fine silk velvet in one of his favourite colours._

_His pleasure in the good weather was heightened at the prospect of meeting Crowley, and when he saw the familiar dark silhouette by the lake at St James’, his heart had lifted, a smile of welcome spreading across his face as he hastened forward, then, becoming aware of how that must look, he had forced himself back into a stroll, turning in to stand alongside the demon when he grew close enough for them to hear each other’s speech without appearing to be meeting deliberately._

_How quickly things change. A few short words, some hedging by Crowley as he broke off to make a non-sequitur about the aural capacities of ducks while Aziraphale read the note passed to him, the scrawl in capitals familiar to him from the earliest missives the two had exchanged, and his former good mood was in tatters. His heart had dropped in his chest, sickness rising in his throat to meet it. He could barely stutter out his objections through the wave of nausea that overtook him. His sight dimmed for a moment, Crowley’s face swimming in sudden tears that rose into his eyes. He had gulped them down and spoken hastily, using a word that he had cause to rue for years afterwards:_

_“Fraternising… or whatever you wish to call it…”_

_As soon as the words were past his lips, he regretted uttering them, but the fear and anger he was now feeling would not allow of the most coherent thoughts._

_Crowley would… Crowley would have him prepare the very instrument of his destruction, so that, were he to use it, Aziraphale himself would have to live with having been the cause of his demise. Not just discorporation, no, total eradication, and he would have to endure that knowledge for the rest of eternity. He could see the anger written on Crowley’s face as he turned to look at him, and he hated to deny the one for whom he would have tried to do any favour. But this, this was too painful, it was asking too much._

_The pain he took away with him that day was grievous. He felt the stabbing hurt from those words deep in the middle of him, the impact of its spasm depriving him of breath for a moment:_

_“_ I don’t need you _.”_

_And his childish riposte, before he stormed off like a jilted lover:_

_“_ The feeling is mutual, obviously _.”_

_He had made it back to Soho, his face set into a frown, rushing into the bookshop, closing the door and drawing the blinds before succumbing to the awful agony he felt, sitting in the chair by his register, placing his face in his hands and wailing softly, allowing himself the luxury of a few tears, a little sob that might have been over a name, if anyone had been there to hear him._

_The next years had been difficult, the sense of loss never far from his mind, he had kept himself as busy as he could and hoped that some sort of rapprochement might be possible, perhaps. The continued lack of contact led him to believe that Crowley had indeed found other friends who pleased him more, and Aziraphale had consoled himself with literature and music, and for a pleasant interlude, the solace of the simple mechanical pleasure of learning to dance, something that had delighted him in its uncomplicated, human joy. His body responded to the fun of it by flooding him with wellbeing, at least while he was in that moment, not a care in his mind for a short span of time. There were human friends too, on occasion, but when anyone came too close, he arranged it so that they would look elsewhere for companionship. Anything else just would not do, it was unconscionable to him to treat them in that way, they were mere children when compared with something as old as he was. So he remained alone for the most part, performing his assignments and watching the human world in all its infinite variety._

_He had been so glad to see his friend again, seventy nine years later, and, in retrospect, he had been right to reverse his decision twenty six years after that.Had he not done so, Crowley would undoubtedly now be in Hell, and it seemed likely that the Earth would no longer exist were it not for him, or at least, the Final War would have taken place. They might both be dead now had he not filled that tartan flask with water, blessed it, his hands shaking, and sealed it tight, washing the outside with ordinary water over and over again until he could be certain sure that it was safe for his demon. His demon, by then, most definitely._

Memories inevitably bring forth their siblings, they follow each other like ducks in a row. The pain of this one called forward others of its kin, and Aziraphale found himself grieving over more recent words said in haste, in panic and fear and not meant. How would he ever be forgiven for the crimes he had committed at Battersea that day? St Peter could not have been more grief filled and contrite. He had denied Crowley more than a paltry three times, and had never had the chance to remedy that awful slight. More than anything, he would have liked the time to say he was sorry, if he was capable of apologising enough for his faults. Aziraphale would never forget the look on Crowley’s face before he turned away and left, even if he did survive over the eternity for which his nature fitted him. The sadness he felt at not explaining added to his piercing sorrow at never being with Crowley again now that he had been forgotten. Working with no prospect of an end in sight for his travail, Aziraphale’s thoughts of those words at the bandstand tormented him. Even remembering the softness on Crowley’s face when he had affectionately dubbed him ‘enough of a bastard to be worth knowing’ did not take away the sting of the remorse he felt. Perhaps residual bitterness over his actions explained why, on reflection after they had parted, Crowley had made the choice to forget him. Perhaps he deserved it for what he had said. He would never now be able to apologise, nor explain, and it was a feeling he found very hard to live with.

***

_“Yet each man kills the thing he loves_

_By each let this be heard_

_Some do it with a bitter look,_

_Some with a flattering word,_

_The coward does it with a kiss_

_The brave man with a sword!”_

Crowley had woken that morning with a splitting headache and waves of nausea. And Wilde, bloody Oscar Wilde, and not one of his funny ones either. He remembered the man, he’d been enjoyable company and Crowley had been rather bitter at the time about what had happened to him, he seemed to recall.

His dreams had been filled with green spaces, public parks, their footpaths, flower beds and lawns spinning crazily through his imagination. He was aware that he had spent time in St James’ Park recently, but he didn’t understand why, exactly. It was a pleasant park, the gardeners did a good job with the beds and shrubberies, but walking in the park was hardly a demonic activity, and as for Battersea, it was bloody miles away, why would he even want to go there?

His head throbbed. He paced around the flat, anxiety denying him comfort in any one activity. After fiddling with his plants for a while, hissing at them where he was too overcome to shout, he shrugged on a jacket, thinking that he might walk to Battersea, see if anything jogged his memory to help make sense of the mixed-up dream world that was puzzling him so much.

It was just over three miles to Battersea, through Green Park and over the river at the Albert Bridge. He ambled along, taking his time. He hadn’t been outside in days and everything was just a little too bright, even with his sunglasses. The streets were filled with the usual Londoners, in all the splendour of their diversity. He loved the city, it had been the obvious place to come and live when he had landed here in the late eighteenth century, and of course it had been ideal to be close to, to be close to… His mind scrabbled for purchase, coming up with nothing other than a renewed burst of pain above the bridge of his nose.

He diverted from his route and walked by the lake in St James’ Park. He avoided the pelicans, weird big buggers with their strange floppy necks and flapping feet. The ducks were their usual cheeky selves. They clustered round him but he had nothing for them. He was vaguely aware that he liked ducks, but could not remember ever feeding them. They seemed to have different ideas though, a clutch of them keeping close by him, their bobbing bodies matching his pace, one daringly nibbling atthe bottom of his trouser leg where it lay folded against his boot. He looked around, there was nothing here for him but an echo of some far off sadness, tinged with anger, and a feeling of loneliness that he had always done his best to deny.

He reached Battersea Park half an hour or so later. It was a huge expanse of land, full of people walking, with dogs, in groups, as couples. After sitting on a park bench for a while, unnerving people by staring at them, he found himself on a long path. At the end of it he could see some sort of circular structure. As he approached, it resolved itself into a roofed bandstand, probably built in the Victorian era if the decorative wrought iron work was anything to go by. He swung himself up on to its platform using one of the pillars and walked around it, looking out to the lawns and benches beyond. This had been in his dream, he was sure of it. There was an association with a tremendous amount of emotion; hurt feelings and despair. There was also an urgency, the desire to protect, and immense frustration. He kicked one of the roof supports, listening to the soft ‘bong’ as the cast-iron pillar reverberated, wishing he knew what was wrong with him. Demons didn’t get ill, it was unheard of, but he felt so out of sorts, like his skin didn’t fit him any more. The world still felt thrown out of gear somehow and himself like a spare part in a machine that was no longer functioning as it should.

He left the bandstand and retraced his steps. He thought about repairing to a pub, but could not face talking even to the bar staff, so he went into the first decent supermarket he saw and picked himself up a few bottles of nice Scotch, with the intention of seeking solace in the bottom of one of them once he got back to Mayfair. Tired of walking, he waited at a bus stop at The Latchmere, picking up a 344 to Vauxhall, then getting the tube from the Underground station there to Green Park. Sitting on the top deck of the double decker gave him a peculiar feeling as well, like he was waiting for someone to join him. He leaned his head against the fug of the steamed-up window, feeling the vibrations from the diesel engine shuddering through his neck. He was done, for the moment, utterly sick at heart without any of his usual resilience. He just wanted to get home, curl up, and go to sleep again.

***

Cherubiel and Miniel appeared on Piccadilly in a flash of lightening as was customary. They looked around them, staring up at the substantial buildings with their facades of dressed ashlar that lined the road. Cherubiel had not been in the area since the sixteen hundreds. He remembered the lace makers who had prospered here and the time when it had been called Portugal Street to honour the wife of the King newly returned from Europe after the Civil War. Things had changed a great deal since then. They gazed around them, oblivious to the looks the pair were receiving in their turn from the people passing them where they stood on the pavement.

London is a diverse place. Some people regard it as cold and unfriendly because the habit of public reserve is deeply ingrained amongst its people. Londoners can be rude, they are busy, always on the move, they will walk round you if you fall over in the street, although there will always be some soul that will stop and ask you if you can manage, you may just have to wait a while. What they also are is tolerant. One can be as odd as one likes in the UK’s capital city without exciting much comment, and a lot of people are just that. If you visit you will see the eccentric loudly and colourfully very much in evidence. These two beings were rather noticeable though, even for London.

Cherubim have in common with Archangels the fact that they like human clothing. If they have manifested on Earth at any time, they tend to gravitate towards sets of apparel that have especially pleased them from a specific period or occasion. Aziraphale loved his fine wool coat in palest cream, bought in the eighteen thirties and kept in tip-top condition through careful handling and the use of professional cleaning services offered by the finest establishments available in London. He also continued to favour a silk velvet waistcoat from the eighteen sixties that, although a little bald around the buttons and the hem, was still perfectly serviceable as far as he was concerned. For Cherubiel, this meant wearing the clothes they had bought in Paris in the seventeen nineties. They manifested in Mayfair wearing a sky blue velvet frock coat with gold braid detailing on the pocket flaps and wide lapels, gold buttons adorning each generous cuff. Their waistcoat, descending as was then the fashion to mid-thigh level, was gold, richly embroidered with a tree of life design. Soft cream breeches covered their shapely legs, their fine calves encased in cream silk with a fashionable (for the period) tassel tied at the side of each knee. They were shod in pale blue slippers decorated with more gold embroidery. White ruffled lace tumbled from their throat where their cravat was tied around their neck above a pristine white linen shirt. The effect was stunning, the impact greater because the angel was nearly seven feet tall. Their naturally cloud-white blond curls were held at their nape with a blue velvet ribbon, the sides of their head neatly coifed into kiss curls, the top swept back from their widow’s peak. On their arm was Miniel in a floor-length bias cut, backless green silk satin gown that shimmered as she walked. She held a long cigarette holder at the end of which was a lilac Sobranie Cocktail cigarette, its smoke twisting lazily around her as she sashayed along in her green patent leather heels. Her platinum shingled bob was held back at the side of her face by her eye with a diamond encrusted barette. She had become fond of mid nineteen thirties evening wear when she was last on Earth, dealing with some very unpleasant Teutonic fellows in black uniforms with skulls on the collars who had thought it a clever idea to mess about with the Ark of the Covenant. Melting their faces off had been a pure pleasure. Cherubs may be lovely creatures but you don’t want to tangle with them when they get tetchy.

The couple were garnering quite a bit of attention as they strolled past Fortnum and Mason and then The Ritz Hotel. People were taking photographs with their phones. There was some whistling and a few cat calls. The two angels, absorbed in taking in the sights and sounds of early evening London, walked on, oblivious to the interest they were generating amongst the populace. Later on, some social media buzz was generated by the images, people assuming that there was a comic con in town or some such. Over the next few hours, the cosmopolitan capital absorbed the phenomenon and moved on.

It was not long before they had reached the address given them by Harahel. The flats had a concierge who let them in once it was suggested to him that they had every right to be there. They had seen the name label for ‘Crowley’ at the buzzer for the penthouse floor and made their way up there in the lift, once Miniel had explained to the confused Cherubiel what lifts were and demonstrated how to summon this one. The carpets in the vestibule were thick, deadening the sounds of their footfalls. They arrived at the door and pressed the buzzer, Miniel took Cherubiel’s hand as they waited, looking up into their face with an encouraging smile.

***

Crowley was slumped on his throne, bottle of Talisker on the table by him, just getting into his third glass of the thirty year old malt. He had changed into his black silk pyjamas and was considering taking himself and the bottle to bed so that he wouldn’t have to bother with staggering there once he had reached the level of inebriation he was seeking to attain. He looked up when the buzzer sounded and snarled in the direction of the door. Who the fuck could that be? If it was those Jehovah’s Witnesses again they could just sod off. He had spent an amusing couple of hours engaging two of them in a debate on the subject of Original Sin a few weeks ago during which they had become more and more uncomfortable as he had outlined exactly what he thought about various issues. It had ended with the pair of them virtually running out of his building. One had gone to join the British Antarctic Survey and the other was currently ensconced in the local Buddhist temple, ostensibly on a retreat but really just wanting some time alone to forget about what he thought he had seen beneath the exterior of that intimidating man in black. Crowley really wasn’t in the mood for baiting religious nuts just now. He scrambled up from where he was sprawled out on the chair, slammed his dark glasses onto his face and, bottle and glass in hand, sauntered to the door, unlocking it and jerking it open, irritably.

“No, I do not want to accept the Lord Jesus as my sa - Oh! Who the fuck are you? Is it fancy dress night at the local looney bin or something?”

He scrunched his face up in puzzlement and sniffed just as Cherubiel spoke, their voice sonorous in the confined space of the corridor.

“Art thou the Demon Crowley, Serpent of Eden and The Agent of Man’s Fall?”

“Nneugh, Christ on a bike, you’re bloody _angels_ aren’t you? I can smell you from here. What are you, Principalities?”

“No, love,” said Miniel, her voice warm and intimate, “we’re Cherubs, we’ve come to see you about…”

She didn’t get to finish what she intended to say before Crowley cut across her.

“Is this a joke?” he said, his face creasing into a sneer, “I don’t wanna talk to any angels, fuck off, the pair of you.”

Miniel stepped forward and laid her hand on his arm. He looked down at it, and then back at her face, and twitched his arm away, the whisky in his glass splashing over his wrist.

“Please, Crowley, it’s important, we’re friends of…”

Again she was halted mid-speech by Crowley’s voice, louder now, tipping over into anger.

“Nah, I don’t care what you want. You can’t come here and talk to me, I’m a demon, I don’t talk to angels. Go on, hop it.”

He stepped back into his flat slightly and made to close the door. Cherubiel took a pace forward and pushed at the door, stopping Crowley from completing his action with an ease borne of their enormous strength.

“We would not trouble thee, Demon, were it not for our concern about Aziraphale, surely thou must be missing him?’

“Az - what? Sounds like an anti-depressant. Who’s he then, when he’s at home, and why should I be missing him, exactly?”

Crowley took a gulp from his glass and topped it up from the bottle, which he placed on the concrete floor next to the doorframe, folding his arms and cradling the glass in the crook of one elbow. He popped his hip and looked Cherubiel up and down, taking in the full effect of his costume.

“You look like an arse, did you realise? Nobody’s dressed like that for the last two hundred years, you celestial berk.”

Cherubiel’s handsome face took on a cool expression, as if it had been carved in marble. Miniel placed a restraining hand on their arm and addressed Crowley again.

“It’s alright love, you can talk to us, we _know_.” Her voice was low, confiding.

“What, is it, exactly, that you think you _know?_ ” retorted Crowley, in a mocking tone.

“About you two, your _friendship_. You don’t have to pretend to us, we’re _on your side_. We want to help get Aziraphale back to you, and we need information from you to help us do that. If we could just come in for a chat.”

Miniel reached out with a tentative hand towards Crowley’s arm again. He stepped back with a compulsive movement as if her touch might burn him, scowling behind his dark glasses.

“Listen, _love_ , I’ve had a bit of a rough day. In fact you could say that I’ve been having a rough few weeks. The last thing I need right now is a pair of feathery wankers such as yourselves coming to my flat and going on about Azithromycin or whatever it was you said. I’ve told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about and I’m not interested, I don’t wanna know. So will you do me the very great favour of going the fuck away and leaving me to enjoy my whisky in peace.”

“Wilt thou continue to deny him, Demon Crowley?” demanded Cherubiel in their most sonorous voice.

“Oh Great Satan’s hairy ball sack, you don’t give up, do you? I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about. Now piss off before I call the Police.”

Crowley’s anger and confusion was evident to the two angels. Miniel looked at Cherubiel and shook her head. The taller angel stepped back, letting go of the door.

“Finally!” the demon said, and taking one last look at the couple on his doorstep, he took a pace backwards and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame it stood in.

***

“Hmm,” said Miniel “there’s something wrong there, he looked terrible.”

The two angels walked back to the lift. Crowley had cut a rather pathetic figure when he had opened the door. His hair had been dishevelled and his skin terribly pale as he stood there, twitching slightly, drinking his whisky in the doorway.

“He was not what I was expecting at all, said Cherubiel, “I thought he would be pleased to have news of his friend.”

“Perhaps he’s frightened,” said Miniel, “maybe he’s had some sort of warning from Beelzebub.”

“Whatever the problem is, it looks as if we are not going to receive any help from that quarter,” said Cherubiel as they held the door to the block open and indicated that their partner go ahead of them with a flourish of their arm.

“You’re right, Cher, darling. I think we’re going to have to find some way of getting to see Aziraphale.”

The two beings stepped into the street. They looked around and then joined hands, snapping their fingers and vanishing in a streak of blue lightning, leaving only a rapidly dispersing smell of ozone floating around the spot where they had been standing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Works quoted in this chapter
> 
> Hamlet by William Shakespeare is quoted in Aziraphale’s memories of the Globe Theatre in 1601
> 
> A quote from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot is what Crowley receives before he dreams of the Globe in 1601.
> 
> I pinched and adapted a little bit of dialogue from Tom Stoppard’s excellent play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead as I firmly believe Neil is making reference to this in the Globe coin tossing scene.
> 
> In his memory from 1862, Aziraphale is humming Brahms’ rondo from the piano quartet No. 1 in g minor opus 25, which was premiered in Hamburg in 1861.
> 
> Part of The Ballad of Reading Gaol is what Crowley received when he is dreaming about 1862 and other park-based angel/demon upsets.
> 
> There is a reference to Stephen Spielberg in there as well.
> 
> Let me know what you think.


	9. Who you are, what you are, all about you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has some visitors and learns some bad news. A member of the army spills the beans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever go to my wonderful, funny and supportive Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) you do make me laugh dear. And again to my fabulous fae sisters in fiction [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) stay sane and happy all three of you.
> 
> Tough times folks, keep smiling. Comments and kudos are always welcome and fuel the fragile writer in her toil.

Cherubiel had requested an audience with the Archangel Gabriel and stood in his office in front of the enormous desk there. Gabriel regarded them with his violet eyes, one of his brightest false smiles plastered across his face. Cherubiel had never been quite convinced by the manner in which Gabriel had seen fit to carry out his management duties and although they would never have admitted publicly to disliking the other, seeing themself as very much above petty office politics, there was little love lost between the two. Cherubiel, as a Prince Angel, outranked the Archangel, but protocol directed that the latter had more executive power over the celestial realms below the level of the Cherubim. Interactions between the two tended to be characterised by a certain level of tension, with Cherubiel ratcheting up their politeness as Gabriel increased his insistence on his status. Time spent with Gabriel was always deeply uncomfortable for the senior cherub and they avoided interactions with the Archangel as much as they could manage. Gabriel had become Aziraphale’s immediate superior once he had been sent to fulfil his role on Earth. Cherubiel had never witnessed the way in which the Archangel had treated the Principality, but they had an instinctive feeling that Gabriel’s attitude towards Aziraphale has always left something to be desired.

‘To what do I owe the honour of your visit here today, Cherubiel?” Gabriel’s smile widened and he raised his hand, “not that it isn’t always a pleasure to see you.”

“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Gabriel,” Cherubiel’s voice had its usual rich and musical tone, filling the space around the two beings with mellifluous sound, “I am here because I am concerned for the spiritual welfare of one of our brethren.”

Gabriel raised his eyebrows, “To whom are you referring, brother?”

“It has come to many attention that our brother Aziraphale is currently in Heaven, and that he has been forced to endure the punishment of confinement in the Void and is now being held in the military compound and put to various duties, spending all of his time alone. I do not see that…”

Gabriel interrupted, his voice brittle with irritation.

“Are you questioning my authority, brother Cherubiel?”

Cherubiel fixed the Archangel with their icy blue eyes, placed their hands on the desk and loomed over the smaller being.

“I am _questioning_ what might be interpreted as un-angelic treatment of one of our own. I accept that you see the need to upbraid him for his recent intervention, something, I might add, that I am personally very grateful to him for, but I understand our views differ on his point. What is not acceptable to me is his present isolation from the Host. All angels have the right to spiritual solace and communion with their equals in praise and prayer.”

Gabriel affected a bored drawl.

“The _Principality_ Aziraphale has brought everything that has happened to him so far upon himself. We cannot tolerate this kind of dissent in Heaven, you know that Cherubiel, even if your hippy dippy values suggest otherwise, and besides, he was fraternising with a de…”

It was Cherubiel’s turn to cut across the pompous speech issuing forth from the Archangel.

“It is not as you suggest, _dippy_ to protect basic angel rights, _Gabriel_ ,” his voice was furious and cold at the slight delivered so casually by the Archangel, it’s bell-like tones ringing in the air, “Aziraphale has the right to association with his fellow angels for devotional purposes, and if you insist on denying him such rights, you will find that I will be here to defend them. Do not cross me, Gabriel, you will find me a very uncomfortable adversary in the long term. I insist that Aziraphale be visited by myself and another of the Cherubim for prayer and song, it is the very least you should be doing for him.”

There was a pause in which Gabriel considered this. Cherubiel was a being of great power and influence. He did not want dissent building up amongst the higher choirs and was aware that Aziraphale could all too easily become the focus for any discontent that might be manifesting at that level. He was not aware that such discontent was already very much in evidence. Nor did he understand that the notion of preventing knowledge of Aziraphale’s current plight acting as a symbol of everything that was wrong with the Heavenly administration was a ship that had slipped its moorings some considerable time ago.

“Very well,” he responded, “you can stop getting so het up now, Cherubiel, I shall send a memo to Michael to authorise you and another to have access to Aziraphale at the times he is not required for his military duties for devotional purposes only, and I hope that will satisfy you”

“Don’t expect me to fall over myself with gratitude, Gabriel. What you are doing is _wrong_. Aziraphale is no more suited to military life than I am. In what way does this serve the greater good?” Cherubiel retained their stance, leaning over the Archangel’s enormous desk, the chin of their beautiful face jutting forward. Gabriel stood himself and leaned in, pushing his face close to the other’s. He spoke again through gritted teeth, a snarl breaking through his usual smooth method of delivery.

“Don’t you _dare_ talk to me about the greater good. Stay in your lane, Cherubiel, and don’t push me, I am still an Archangel, I know what is best for Aziraphale at the moment and that is for him to learn a bit of discipline and rehabilitate himself so that he can become a useful member of the Host. Don’t even think about questioning me. Back off and be glad that I have relented as much as I have.”

The two beings stared at each other, the air bristling with the tension between them. There was a creak and a rustle and Cherubiel’s wings manifested in all their icy glory. They were beginning to glow and there was a whine in the air as their power built up momentum. Gabriel carefully sank back down into his chair, unwilling to risk any physical confrontation with the other angel. He held up his hands and bowed his head in an approximation of a calming gesture, his voice assuming its usual tone of hearty bonhomie.

“Come now, brother, let us now fight about this, I am granting your request. Go in peace, Cherubiel, and I shall send the memo to Michael’s office immediately.”

“Very well, “ responded Cherubiel, unmantling their wings slowly and folding them away with meaningful deliberation, “I shall expect to hear from her staff directly. However, if I pick up any inkling that our brother has been subjected to ill treatment, you shall be seeing me here again. Good day to you, Gabriel.”

They swept out of the Archangel’s office and Gabriel put his head in his hands with a groan. The pesky Principality continued to cause him vexation. It was fortunate that he was well ahead with arrangements that would sort the problem out once and for all. He picked up his sleek silver mobile and called up Michael’s number. Time to get things moving on the final stages of their plan.

***

Miniel, Cherubiel and Anpiel made their way through the corridors of the Heavenly administrative level and out towards the military compound. Cherubiel had the authorisation form signed by Michael in their hand. Anpiel had a letter for Aziraphale, ostensibly from AR, forged by Pravuil, to act as cover for her presence. They were admitted to the compound by the Guard Angel there and, having been given directions, found their way to the tiny room that Aziraphale had been allocated. The Principality was there, sitting in a canvas chair, expression distant. His eyes widened in shock when he saw that he had visitors and he stood to receive them, looking round himself at the bare room distractedly. This had not happened for him before now.

“Oh! Oh, Cherubiel, my dear fellow,” he appeared utterly overcome to see the three figures taking up so much room in the tiny space. His hands twisted in front of his body and a bewildered frown settled on his face, “goodness, I was not expecting, oh dear, and I have nothing to… Oh, this is most inhospitable of me…”

Cherubiel walked up to Aziraphale and bent to take both of his hands in their larger ones.

“Brother, we are here to offer you comfort. It is good to see you again.”

In truth they were shocked to note Aziraphale’s appearance. He was so much thinner than usual, the gauntness of his face exacerbated by the fact that his curls had been shorn to the stubble of a regulation army haircut. There were purple shadows under his eyes and the hands in theirs felt calloused by physical work, their usually beautiful appearance marred by nails bitten down to the quick. It was clear that Aziraphale was surviving, but not without cost to his general wellbeing. Miniel pushed past Cherubiel and wrapped her arms around a surprised Aziraphale.

“Oh you poor darling, come here.” She felt him resist at first, his body tensing against her but then he softened into the hug and she heard his breathing hitch, as he fought to control his emotions.

Her embrace was filled with simple kindness, and it was not long before Aziraphale’s carefully constructed walls of stoical endurance crumbled under the warm wave of her sisterly love, like a sandcastle submitting to the tide. It felt so good to be held. Tears formed unbidden in his eyes and ran down his cheeks, despite his efforts to contain them. Miniel rubbed his back, murmuring soothing words as he shook with quiet sobs while she held him. After a little while, he straightened up and muttering ‘Thank you, my dear Miniel’ in a small voice, disengaged from the arms of the other angel.

“Forgive me,” he nodded at Anpiel, managing a watery smile, “it has been so long since I have spoken with anyone. What can I do for you all?” He inclined his head, his face a question. Cherubiel stepped forward again.

“I need to speak with you, Aziraphale. We have leave to be here to assist you with your devotions so we must make the outward appearance of that. I shall begin singing with Miniel, then Anpiel will take over so that we may talk without being overheard.” They took both of Miniel’s hands in theirs, and the two began to sing. Grateful for the chance to add his praises, Aziraphale also raised his voice in song, no-one had sung with him in years.

When we think of angels singing, we have nothing to compare them to but human voices. There is little more splendid than the massed forces of a choir singing together, the glorious noise of human vocal skills in harmony is transcendent, awe inspiring, spine tingling and magnificent. Angel singing is another thing entirely. When our brains perceive music, the sounds bypass our intellect and hit our emotions directly. Angelic voices, were they to be heard by mortals, would enter via the soul and ravish all the senses. It was an angel’s voice at the Beginning that brought sound into being.

Cherubiel began, their voice like all the sweetness of the world distilled, yet nothing like the world has ever heard. Miniel chimed in and their voices rose together, the lines of singing condensing, coalescing in the air, twisted round with light. Their cadences rose and fell in a devotional song so old the ululations barely counted as language, learned by all of angel stock before the world was made. Aziraphale took his part, closing his eyes, offering up his adoration, a little rusty but so much a part of him that soon his voice was woven in with the rest. He felt soft hands take his and looked down to see Anpiel next to him, blending her harmonies with his as she gripped both of his hands in her small deft fingers. They all sang together for a while, the four voices cutting through the air and threading around each other, abiding beauty, strength, belief and purity. For those moments, all was sound and everything in the eternal universe made sense.

The angel voices filled the tiny room and spilled out across the compound, a sound not heard in this part of Heaven since before the Great War. The soldiers in their quarters stopped what they were doing, cleaning cloths stilled, swords laid aside from the whetstone. Card games and conversations halted for a moment as the beauteous melodies washed over them all. Angels drilling halted and hovered, wings fluttering as they drank in the sound. Hardened soldiers, angels of few words who would eschew all notion of _softness_ found themselves quietly clearing their thickening throats, blinking and swallowing, staring for too long at the floor or the ceiling, avoiding each other’s eyes.

Cherubiel, singing, signalled with a nod of their head for Anpiel to stand by Miniel and take her hands from them. Anpiel picked up their lines and Cherubiel left off, crossing the room to Aziraphale and taking his arm. Miniel and Anpiel leaned together, spinning out the harmonies of four with two voices, in blissful synchronicity continuing the complex vocal lines between them.

Cherubiel crouched close to Aziraphale so that they could hear each other over the peals of the singing raining down from the two other angels, and looked deeply into his eyes.

“How are you truly, little brother?” their noble face was troubled as their eyes tracked across the other’s countenance, noticing the signs of strain there, “the truth now, you know you can talk to me.”

Aziraphale sighed and frowned a little.

“I… I manage, it is quite fine, I can do this, I assure you. I try to accept it with good grace. What option do I have, after all?” Cherubiel took his hand.

“There is to be a trial, did they tell you that?”

“N-no I…I thought if I served my time here I was to go back to Earth, to a-another assignment!”

“No, my dear, we have it from Nanael, there is to be a,” they hesitated over the term, “a military trial, on the grounds of dereliction of duty…”

“You mean a court martial,” interrupted Aziraphale.

“I suppose it will be that, yes, I am not familiar with the terminology. But Aziraphale, we must get you representation, witnesses…”

“It hardly matters does it? They want me to be guilty, to punish me for all that I have done, halting the apocalypse, stopping their war, consorting with the enemy. They hate me you know, they all hate me, for what I did,” Aziraphale raised his eyes to Cherubiel, his words were husky, almost a whisper, “but it was the right thing to do, not my duty, no, but the right thing, I know it, I felt it was, in the end…” his voice tailed off.

“Not everyone hates you, Aziraphale, not I for one, and there are others, those that are glad that the world still turns and that they did not have to fight, and they are many. You have friends, Aziraphale, believe me, and we want to help you. Let us help you.” Cherubiel’s rich voice was compelling and Aziraphale looked up at them, wanting to believe and have hope. Cherubiel continued.

“We must work together to decide who would be best to represent you and gather evidence to support your case. Pravuil is speaking with angels well versed in the law and if you can tell us something of your time on Earth, we can gather information on the good that you did and present it. But first, and most importantly, your friend, the Demon Crowley. He will not speak with us, what is the best way of…”

Aziraphale clutched his arm, his face creased with concern.

“You spoke with Crowley? How is he? How did he look? Is he alright? Tell me, please!”

“He would not speak with us. He was rather…rude. He claimed not to know what we were talking about when we mentioned your name. Is he frightened of something? Perhaps he has had a warning? Aziraphale? You know him well, have you any idea?…Aziraphale?”

The singing continued a few feet away from them. Aziraphale had turned as if he was trying to hear more clearly and raised his hand to his eyes. It took Cherubiel a few moments to realise that he was crying once more, his whole body shaking with silent sobs. They produced a large handkerchief and passed it to the other angel, who put it to his face.

“He has forgotten me,” Aziraphale choked out, “Gabriel said it was his choice, he chose to h-have his m-memories w-w-wiped. Oh Cherubiel!” the cry was a heartfelt wail of despair, “I had h-hoped if I could get back to Earth we might meet again, become friends again, that I could start over again with him, not make the same m-mistakes again. I have said so many things I r-regret. And now they’re going to demote me, aren’t they? And keep me here for, for _all of eternity_!”

The sobs were audible now. Aziraphale continued to speak, his breathing erratic between phrases, bottom lip shaking, “I love the world, and I miss it so m-much but I love him m-more, so much more…Gabriel laughed at me, he has such a f-filthy mind, did you know that? Well, he does… I know I’m a bad angel, I know that, I t-try to be good, but I just miss him, I m-miss him so…and I never told him…Oh I am such a fool!”

“Aziraphale, calm yourself, please,” Cherubiel patted his friend on the back as his shoulders heaved, “we shall have to leave you soon, the song of praise is almost done. Please take heart Aziraphale. We shall work to get you free and you may see your friend again. The main thing to concentrate on is the trial. We shall be in touch. Do not forget you have friends in Heaven, try not to be too downhearted, dear brother.”

The sobbing went on for a while, but eventually the spasms seemed to be easing and Aziraphale lifted his head.

“I am sorry, I sound so ungrateful, Cherubiel,” he gulped, sighing and sniffling as he handed the soaking handkerchief back to the taller angel, absent-mindedly, “thank you for coming, and for everything you are doing. Sorry for losing control. I will try to do better.” He sat up straighter in his chair and tried to smile, but the pain was clear upon his face, etched there deeply in the lines that ran between his nose and mouth and cleaved the space between his eyes.

Anpiel and Miniel were coming to the final phrases of the devotional chorale and finished with an echoing flourish, dropping each other’s hands and smiling across at Aziraphale and Cherubiel.

“We must leave you now, I am sorry. Fare thee well, Aziraphale,” Cherubiel stood and then bent to place a kiss upon the other angel’s forehead, “may God protect and keep you, little brother.”

Minel raised her hand as Cherubiel joined her at the door “It was good to see you, Aziraphale,” she said, “you will be in my prayers, dear one.”

Anpiel ran over and hugged Aziraphale quickly, startling him.

“Oh Aziraphale, it is so _lovely_ to meet you, I have always wanted to, you know. We all love you _very_ much. And we _will_ help you,” her green eyes were fierce for a moment, “we _won’t_ let anything bad happen to you, you’ll see!” With this parting shot, she ran out of the room after the cherubs, leaving Aziraphale wondering, what it was about him that had made her want to meet him so much, he was nothing special, after all.

***

When Anpiel made her way to the Akashic records repository, she was persistently dogged with the feeling that she was being followed. Adroit at flitting around Heaven unimpeded, she took some detours and the long way round, doubling back on herself a few times before making her way to the dingy work room where the latest meeting of SOCK had been convened. She arrived just after Raduerial and Harahel. Pravuil and Jophiel were already there, and they were joined by Cherubiel and Miniel not long afterwards.

Cherubiel brought the group up to date with what had happened so far, describing their and Miniel’s visit to Crowley and the implications of what Aziraphale had told them about the demon’s memory loss.

“The Demon Crowley has had his memory modified,” they concluded, heavily, “probably by Prince Beelzebub, as it would take a high-ranking denizen of Hell do such a thing effectively, it is so difficult to get anything like that to stick, it requires great power. This means of course, that we cannot rely on Crowley to give any kind of testimony. He is entirely hostile and seems in rather a bad way.”

“I have been speaking with Ramiel and Remiel of the Seraph Lawyers Council,” put in Pravuil, “ they think we may have a way forward, but it is a gamble. I require more information before we can rely on it being accepted by the court. Aziraphale needs to choose his Counsel well.”

“He seemed in no fit state to do so, he is so weighed down with everything, I must speak with him again on the subject,” said Cherubiel, face troubled.

“I could go, next time, that is, I would love to see him, it has been so long.” It was the soft voice of Jophiel speaking this time. She didn’t say much at meetings but had very been upset when Cherubiel had told her privately what a state Aziraphale was in after hearing about his forthcoming trial.

“Right,” said Pravuil, taking control of the meeting again, “that’s settled then, Joph and Anpiel can go to see Aziraphale next time he is scheduled for devotions. Raduerial, did you come up with anything to help with witnesses?”

“Indeed I did,” replied the black-haired angel, “Harahel and I,” he smiled down at his friend who in turn looked up at him fondly, “have been going through the recent records to find the souls that Aziraphale has helped in the past. I believe we can locate the ones that are with us, take some testimonies and ask if they are willing to speak for him, should it come to that.”

There was a clatter from just outside the door and everyone froze. The shelving in the next room was insufficiently attached to the wall and vibrated if anyone passed too close to it owing to an unevenness in the flooring. The building was ancient and required constant maintenance. Pravuil had been meaning to get on to it for months.

“Who’s there?” said Pravuil, sharply, “I charge you to reveal yourself!” there was silence for a moment and then the shuffling of feet. Nanael appeared at the door, looking sheepish.

“Sorry to barge in, I was just wantin’ to…”

“What are you doing here? Who sent you?” Pravuil was sharp as she advanced on Nanael, who, despite being a hardened warrior, looked very apprehensive as she bore down on him.

“N-nobody, I followed you,” he indicated Anpiel who scowled at him, her normally bright face darkened with annoyance, “wanted to find someone to tell. Got some information, I have. Thought you’d want to know, since you asked me ‘bout ‘im before.” He glanced around the room, taking in all the angels sitting in council there.

“Coo, this looks a bit formal, what you doin’ here then?”

“Nothing you need know about, dear boy,” said Cherubiel, “come then, tell us what you are here to say.”

Nanael stood, twisting his white beret in his hands in front of his camouflage jacket.

“If I tell you this, it ain’t come from me, right?”

“You have our word, Nanael, come on, spit it out,” Pravuil regarded him cooly, and he started to speak.

‘It’s ‘Zir’phale, you know he’s going to the Court, don’t you, yeah?”

They all nodded.

“Well, I heard from the Commander in Chief’s office that if they find him guilty, and they think that’s a cert, then he’s to be cashiered and then demoted. Proper like, the way they used to you know, back in the day. And with him being a cherub, prop’ly speaking, they’re goin’ to…” Nanael was red faced and looked slightly sick.

‘Oh, good Lord!” breathed Cherubiel, “that’s barbaric…”

“An’ that’s not fair, I mean, what’s he done that’s so terrible, right? And if they can do that, what next, eh? Next time it could be my Nithael. It could be any of us. So I thought I oughta tell you, see if someone can do something. Thassorl.”

Anpiel gazed at each of the collected angels in turn. Harahel looked puzzled, the others horrified. It was something awful, what the soldier angel had just said, she could feel it, but she hadn’t understood what any of it had meant.

“What is it?” she said, in a small voice, “this cashiering thing, what does it mean? Cherubiel, dear? Tell me.”

Cherubiel took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

“It is the worst punishment that the army has besides execution. It means that the soldier is taken from the court and has their rank stripped from them publicly, their insignia are ripped off them and their sword is broken. But, the worst thing is, dear Anpiel, and I am so sorry you have to hear this, if they are of the upper choirs and are to be demoted to the rank of ordinary angel, any wings they have below their primary set have to be,” they took another breath and swallowed, “well, they have to be removed.”

There were a few indrawn breaths around the room.

“R-removed?” Anpiel’s silvery voice was flat, her eyes wide with horror, “removed, how?”

Nanael shifted and winced, looked at the little angel and opened his mouth to respond.

“In this case, the Lord Michael is to do it ‘erself, with ‘er sword, like she did at the Fall, one blow for each wing.”

There was a stunned silence that was sharply broken by Pravuil.

“That’s it, we have no choice, we have to try to get the testimony of the Demon Crowley!”

***

Aziraphale was working at the forge, he wore a thick leather apron and heavy gauntleted gloves. He was re-tempering swords and spear heads. He had been rather clumsy doing this initially but had recently become proficient at it and he worked quietly, with concentration. Since the news from Cherubiel, he had been finding it more difficult to distract himself with poetry and music. A lot of the time he spent considering, going back to memories of his time on Earth. Knowing he was very unlikely to see the demon again, he spent much of his time thinking of Crowley, remembering times they had spent together, meals that he they had eaten, jokes and laughter at the bookshop that was no longer under his care. He felt the love he bore almost constantly, comforting himself by sending thoughts that he could not express now, down to Crowley in London, wishing him well and hoping that he was happy in his new life.

He was hammering when he heard an imperious voice call his name. It was Michael, approaching the forge with something weighty in her hand. He stood to attention and saluted, making sure his face was expressionless as she came to a stop in front of him.

“Ah, Aziraphale, there you are, working hard I see.”

No response was required to this so he gave none.

“I understand from Cerviel that you have become quite adept at this, well done, soldier.”

He kept his face impassive. Having nothing to say to her, he remained silent.

“I hope this isn’t a case of dumb insolence Aziraphale, you should answer your superior officer when she addresses you.”

“Yes, sir,” he responded, softly, “may I have leave to continue with my work now…sir?”

‘In a moment. I have a job for you, Aziraphale,” she lifted the object she was carrying, it was her double handed battle sword, a good six foot length of shining heavenly steel topped by a hilt decorated with precious stones and filigree work. She passed it, hilt first, to Aziraphale who took it, feeling the strain of its weight on his upper arms, and placed it on the anvil. She then passed him a square of silk, which he took from her fingers, looking up into her face with some puzzlement, not sure where this was going.

“I want you to sharpen this,” she smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression to behold, then she continued, “it must be very sharp Aziraphale, do you understand me? Sharp enough to cut this silk. When it is done, bring it to my office yourself, I wish to make sure you have done a proper job. Believe me, Aziraphale, it is very much in your interest that you get this right.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir, I shall do my best,” he responded, still speaking softly, his face a closed mask, devoid of expression.

“See that you do, see that you do.”

With that, she strode away. Aziraphale looked at the sword, and in a strange way, felt it look back at him. The filigree on the hilt, if stared at for long enough, appeared to resolve itself into a face. Aziraphale did not like to look at it for too long. This sword had seen some terrible things. It had a distinct aura of its own, ancient, cold, merciless, the feeling around it spoke of the deeds that it had done. There was nothing of good about it, only correctness, the letter of the law. As he lifted it again to take it to the whetstone, he wondered what, in particular, she wanted it sharpened for.


	10. One is starved for technicolour up there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is once more troubled by disturbing dreams. He wakes to find some people at his door and learns a lot of rather surprising facts about the recent past. 
> 
> It turns out that all cherubs have a hedonistic streak...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thanks to my wonderful and wise Beta Elf on the Shelf and to my friends in mad Mother battles, Libbyfay and WanderingBard3, I owe you all so much for keeping me laughing and sane through these trying times.
> 
> As ever, please do leave kudos and tell me what you think, all comments received with gratitude.
> 
> Content warning for angelic alcohol abuse.

_I am moved by fancies that are curled_

_Around these images, and cling:_

_The notion of some infinitely gentle_

_Infinitely suffering thing…_

In Mayfair, a demon is dreaming…

_In the Garden, he is walking across the soft grass, there is singing, he can’t see the singer’s face, they have their back to him but there are blond curls and a little green bird on an outstretched hand. They are singing and talking to it, telling it how pretty it is. He shouldn’t feel like this, this is wrong. The figure turns and sees him and there is a smile where there should be a smiting, and as he feels a smile sliding over his own face, he knows that it is he who is smitten._

_A white feather, there on the grass, it is in his hand, he brings it to his nose and inhales, a special scent. He tucks it away…_

***

_I know how you…_

_…smell…_

_I know…_

_I know how you…_

_How you…_

_Where the heaven are you? You idiot…_

_Burning, burning, burning, burning._

_Oh Lord, thou pluckest me out…_

_Right I’m done, I’ve had it…_

_I hate you all…_

_Somebody killed my best friend…_

_Bastards, all of you!_

_Burning._

There was a pounding in his head, the smell of smoke and heat from his dream still felt as if it was radiating from his skin. He thought he was going to be sick, tears were rolling down his face and all of a sudden he was twisted round in the sweaty sheets, gasping, retching, his face pressed into the side of his mattress. His head thumped and thumped and it took him a while to realise that the noise wasn’t just inside his skull but also coming from his front door. He sat up, the room spinning and lurching. He managed to get his feet to the floor and hauled himself upright, staggering a little as he went to see who it could possibly be making that unholy noise.

_***_

Cherubiel and Miniel were standing once more outside the penthouse suite where the Serpent of Eden was known to have his demonic lair. Cherubiel had varied their clothing, the vanity that they would never have admitted to owning having been severely dented by Crowley’s mocking appraisal of their sartorial choices on their previous visit.

The top-end tailor on Saville Row had been delighted when the tall gentleman with the face and body of a Greek God had turned up in his shop that afternoon asking to be measured for a bespoke suit. It was with some puzzlement that he found himself making up said suit at a time that felt like after hours for an express order yet did not seem to have any effect on his usual evening with his partner, there was just a strange intense feeling of fatigue. The beautiful man had been very grateful when he collected the suit, it had turned out particularly well, but who wouldn’t be inspired dressing a frankly magnificent body like _that._ The customer had been particularly effusive in his thanks and had paid then and there in cash. The tailor was also surprised when, a week later, he checked his online bank account and realised he would have enough money to take on that new apprentice after all.

Cherubiel didn’t feel entirely comfortable with putting some poor human into a fold in time just so that they could have a new suit, so they felt an appropriate remuneration was the least they could do. They stood there, resplendent in a exquisitely tailored three piece fine tweed suit in midnight blue with a crisp white linen shirt and cobalt blue tie, their long white curls that glinted with gold highlights were tied back at their nape with the same blue velvet ribbon as before. Polished black Oxfords in a size not normally available for human purchase graced their feet. Miniel, having looked online at what actual humans wore, had clad her curves in high waisted blue jeans, rolled up at her ankles to show pink socks and silver hi-tops with quirky little wings at each side of her fine ankle bones. Her white t-shirt was emblazoned with the legend ‘It’s a cherub thing, you wouldn’t understand’ in Bookman font, only visible in part under a black denim jacket. She wanted to look human, yes, but couldn’t resist a little celestial riff on a slogan tee.

They had pressed the buzzer several times and having received no answer, began to knock on the door.

“I hope he’s in there,” said Miniel.

“He’s in there, I can sense him Min. I think…”

Cherubiel’s speech was cut short by the door being wrenched open, a vision of Crowley in his black pyjamas appearing within its frame. His hair was wild, some of it plastered over the side of his face. His skin was waxy looking, the yellow eyes in the pale face rimmed with red. Miniel thought she could see tear tracks on his cheeks.

“What the buggering fuck do you bastards _want_?” he spat. He looked beside himself, teetering on the edge of losing control, “Oh **shit** , it’s you two bloody _freaks_ again.”

Crowley made to shut the door but was stopped by Cherubiel who was crowding him back into his hallway before he could do anything much about it. Miniel bent into the gap by Cherubiel’s raised arm as they pushed the door open and spoke quickly.

“Please, Crowley, just hear us out, we can help you. You don’t look well, dear.”

Once they were inside, she turned and closed the front door. They stood together for a moment in the grey half light of Crowley’s hall.

“Get out of my flat you feathery morons, I **do not want** to speak to you…” Crowley’s expression was desperate.

Cherubiel towered over the demon, who looked small in comparison. He held up both hands, palms out and fingers spread in an attempt to calm Crowley.

“We mean you no harm, Demon Crowley,” they said, their voice filling the gloomy hallway, “we would not be here if we did not have a grievous need to speak with you.”

Crowley stood for a moment looking at the two angels, fear and indecision playing across his features. Then all at once he seemed to give in, throwing his hands up in the air with an expression of exasperated resignation on his face.

“ _Fine_ , I’ll give you ten minutes but I’m not doing this without a drink.”

He snapped his fingers and was dressed in his customary black jeans, grey henley, waistcoat and black jacket ensemble, the dark glasses were back in place and his hair was perfectly coiffed. He raised his arm and beckoned the two angels further into the recesses of his flat, swaying along the corridor to the larger room beyond.

“Well, this is, erm, nice, darling,” said Miniel, looking around at the sparse decor, nervously. She caught sight of the winged figures statue and tilted her head, raising her eyebrows before carrying on behind the other two beings. Cherubiel went ahead, and, catching sight of the plant room, turned their steps to investigate.

“Ah,“ they said, lifting a rose to their face, “Beautiful,” they took in the scent and a smile spread across their stern features, lighting them up for a moment, “we are starved for colour up there, you know.”

“Oi!” said Crowley, striding towards the larger angel“leave those _alone_.”

He grabbed Cherubiel by the arm and tugged them away,muttering furiously.

“Don’t call them _beautiful,_ you _arsehole.”_

The cherub let go of the rose with a little moue of surprise and allowed themself to be pulled by the demon into his living room. Miniel lingered a little at the flowers and plants, stroking a leaf or two and smiling, and then hurried to catch up.

The two angels took their seats on the leather sofa, not far from where Aziraphale had spent his fretful night on the day the world didn’t end, and looked at Crowley who was standing at the drinks cabinet, busy pouring himself a stiff measure of whisky. He gestured across at them.

“Right, then, out with it, what is it that you need to talk to me about so urgently? Come on, spill, and this had better be bloody good.”

Cherubiel took a breath but Miniel hushed them with a gesture and started to speak in her low, husky voice.

***

“So let me get this straight, you reckon I’ve had my memories altered, and this Azathioprine…”

“Aziraphale,” interrupted Cherubiel.”

“Okay, whatever. He’s been down here, with me, for the last six thousand years, right? And you say we’re _friends?_ And he’s an angel and I’m a demon. How does that work then? Doesn’t sound too likely on the face of it, does it?”

“We do not know the details, just that it is the case,” said Cherubiel, “and that after the two of you assisted in preventing the Apocalypse and averted the Last War between Heaven and Hell…” he did not get to finish owing to a shout from the demon opposite him.

“YOU WHAT? ‘ Crowley’s eyebrows rocketed up towards his hairline, “We did WHAT, now?”

***

“Right, so you want me to testify.”

“Yes.”

“To stop this Azimuth.”

“Aziraphale,” came Cherubiel’s exasperated voice

“Yeah, right, sorry. From getting his wings cut off, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a right bunch of bloodthirsty bastards up there, aren’t you? I don’t even think our lot go in for slicing each other’s wings off. That’s just fucking horrible. But I can’t, you know that, don’t you?” Crowley shrugged, expansively.

“Why not?” Cherubiel’s tone was increasingly irate.

“Because _._ _Because,_ I don’t fucking remember any of this bollocks, that’s why. I don’t even know whether or not you’re telling me the truth about any of this. How do I know that this isn’t some sort of rather late-in-the-day revenge for the whole apple business, eh? Telling me a load of bullshit to get me up to Heaven for a spot of torture?”

“You will have to trust us, Demon Crowley.”

“What’s with the whole ‘demon’ thing? Trying to rub it in are you, you holier-then-thou prick? It’s just Crowley. Stop talking like you’ve got a lily up your arse.”

There was a silence while Cherubiel attempted to quell the flare of irritation this provoked and Crowley watched the process, visibly amused. He took another sip of his whisky and looked serious for a moment.

“Why are you doing all this anyway? What do you care if Azidothymidine or whatever the blessed creature is called…”

“It’s _Aziraphale_ , you pernicious serpent!”

“Mmyeah, alright, keep your wig on. What do you care if he gets found guilty and gets mutilated by one of those Arch-arseholes. Of course, it’ll be Michael, won’t it? I remember the last time,” he shuddered and looked into his drink, “and why should I care about him? I don’t care if some angel I’ve never met gets worked over by you sadistic bastards upstairs. None of you cared about what we went through when we Fell. Why should I care if he lives or dies. I’m a demon, for fucks sake. We don’t do caring about angels, it’s not part of the job spec.”

Miniel stood up and crossed to stand near Crowley, her face working.

“Because it’s _wrong_ to start with _._ And _because_ it’s Aziraphale. Because he’s special. Because, because…” she looked frustrated and wrung her hands in front of her body, ‘…because we all owe him, and you, for saving the world and stopping the war. Because he is our little brother, and we love him. Come on Crowley! We _know_ you’re unusual for a demon, we’ve seen what you’ve done and it’s because of that he loves you. You should see how he grieves for you!”

Crowley went very still. His voice was low and sibilant.

“He _what_?”

“He loves you.” Miniel looked up into his face, her jaw set and determined.

“Nah, I need another drink, you’re just taking the piss now…”

“No! I couldn’t be more serious. And besides, dear,” Miniel placed a warm hand on his arm, ‘you’re wrong, we did care, we all cared very much.”

He looked at her now she was close and she smiled at him hesitantly as she continued, her low voice tight with pain.

“You need to know, Crowley, Heaven became very different after the War and the Fall, and Aziraphale was one of the ones who felt it most keenly. When we were all young, he was a favourite because he was mischievous. He made us all laugh, he was always a one for joking, teasing. He drove some of the senior angels spare, but none of it was unkindly meant, he was just light-hearted and enjoyed making us all laugh. After you were all taken away from us, we all changed,” her lips tightened and her face became sad and contemplative, ‘but it hit Aziraphale particularly hard. He would still smile, but the light-heartedness was gone. We all learned caution, and Heaven became so much colder. I think we all grew up, if you can put it like that. The loss of open love and affection made Aziraphale very sad. We all became much tougher and more distant from each other. And that was when the current administration took over, and all the strictures were put in place banning relationships. The humour became much blacker and we learned about bitterness and the dark places. There are angels up there who lost their soul mates, and we still think of the Fallen, and pray for them, and hold them in our hearts. So don’t you dare tell me that we don’t care. Aziraphale was glad to leave when he did, and be stationed on Earth. He loves it here, but I can tell you this for a fact, he loves you more.”

Crowley was astonished by this passionate speech from the dazzling creature standing by him with tears in her eyes. He hadn’t known, and found all of what he was hearing very hard to take in. He pushed his glasses aside and rubbed his eyes. The past few months had taken a good deal out of him, and he was exhausted and overwhelmed. It had all been rather too much. There was part of him that just wanted to hide away and process what he had been told. It was difficult for a demon who had spent thousands of years assuming his own basic unfitness for love to take on board the notion that not only did those in the Heavenly regions still miss their fallen siblings, but that there was an angel who knew him well and who had still decided that he was worthy of love. A huge part of him rejected this reflexively and entirely out of hand

“Nope, I can’t be doing with this. I’m going back to bed, need to think. You can do what you like.”

He was starting to leave the room when Cherubiel’s voice cut into the silence again.

“What about the dreams, Crowley?”

“Neugh, what?”

“When we arrived, you were somewhat, ah, dishevelled. I believe that you may be having dreams about your previous life. Removing memories is extremely difficult, even for one so powerful as a Prince of Hell. Residual images and impressions tend to, erm, bleed through, as it were, and that is likely to happen during sleep or moments when concentration is decreased. When we arrived, you appeared to be in some state of consternation. Have you been experiencing any, what might be called, nocturnal disturbances?”

“Been dreaming a bit, yeah, now you come to mention it.” Crowley stopped and turned to face the two angels again, “Okay, you may have a point, but I still need to think about it don’t I? Gonna go have a lie down, want some time to, process, yeah?”

“May we stay here, please, we need to go further afield tomorrow to gather information. We shall do no harm to you,” said Miniel, her voice full of entreaty.

Crowley sighed, and rolled his eyes, he had no energy left to fight this pair. “Alright, if you must. Just stay quiet, no bloody doing good or anything while you’re here. Don’t, under any circumstances, put the television on, and leave the plants alone. Help yourselves to a drink,” he indicated the cabinet, full of liquor bottles of various colours along with glasses of different shapes, and sashayed out of the room.

Once she had heard the door of Crowley’s bedroom close, Miniel returned to the sofa and sat next to Cherubiel, taking their hand.

“I think that went as well as we could have hoped darling. We must talk with him some more and hope we can encourage the memories to return.”

“He’s extremely difficult, my love,” Cherubiel sighed and looked fondly at their partner. She always saw the best in everyone, “but you are right, we must persevere.” They lifted her hand to their lips placing a soft kiss there.

“We did our best, sweetheart. Now,” Miniel’s fond expression turned a little wicked, “how would you like to try some of the brown liquid that Crowley seems so keen on, hmm? And after that, I’d really love to have a go at the human kissing thing, we’ve never done that, have we, my dear?”

Cherubiel’s noble face was effused with a look of pure love for their soulmate, so sweet and delectable in human form. “Whatever you like my darling, lead the way.”

***

In his room, Crowley stretched out on his mattress, his thoughts in turmoil. It was a hell of a lot to take in at once. What he had been told did make a certain amount of sense, given the mental disruption he had been experiencing over the last few months.

Although he couldn’t remember him, he started to feel that he might be able to muster some sympathy for this angel, whoever he was, yet another victim of the ice-cold correctness of Heavenly justice. He hadn’t forgotten the circumstances surrounding his Fall. Michael’s furious face as she had dealt with the renegades was etched upon his mind.They evidently hadn’t become any kinder up there in the intervening six thousand years. He couldn’t believe the bit about love though, that was too far fetched. There must have been some mistake about that part, an angel wouldn’t love a demon, one of the fallen, not any of the angels he remembered meeting, anyway.

Deep within his chest, he felt a fluttering. He likened it to a butterfly trapped in a jar, flapping and bumping against the glass. He had been experiencing it more and more over the past few weeks. At first he had considered that he might be having palpitations, but that wasn’t very likely for an occult being. He seemed to experience it at times of heightened emotion and just after he woke from his disturbed nights of dreaming. He placed his hand over his heart and succumbed to the feeling of loss and despair that swept over him. Perhaps these angels were right and the defences of his mind had been breached. He determined that he would do what he could to help the celestial pair who had descended on him so peremptorily, anything would be better than continuing to suffer as he had been doing. Perhaps there would be some resolution for him, one way or another. He lay back, fully clothed and drifted to sleep again.

***

_Persecution’s cruel mouth_

_Shows a twisted love of truth_

_Deeper than the rack and rope_

_Lies the double human hope_

_My good, your good, good we seek_

_Though we turn no other cheek_

_He who slays and he who’s slain_

_Like in purpose, like in pain._

_He was on the beach, his feet were on hot sand. No, not hot sand, but he was dancing, hopping, skittering. The air was gloomy around him, a smell of plaster dust permeated it, and there were sounds, a heavy,percussive thud, there, and then again, coming from far off. The air was forced into his lungs as he capered and jigged. An overwhelming sense of urgency. They were going to… going to kill… the bloody fool… what did he think he was doing… no natural guile, that was his trouble… idiot, thought he was clever. Keep cool, try to look cool, keep those feet moving. A halo of curls, candlelight. A winged statue carrying a heavy tome. The need for his power, light meeting dark A rush of air, hot and acrid and then the cool feeling of the darkened street. And books, there had been books and fingers brushing his own. Peace and relief, so good not to be at odds any more. Driving through the unlit streets, smelling cordite and brick dust. Stopping, a doorway, pillars, so familiar, like coming home…_

Crowley came back to consciousness slowly, feeling an ancient ache in his feet, which dissipated as he sat up. He looked down at himself, noting that he was fully dressed, and then the events of the previous night filtered back to him by degrees. He remembered that there were angels in his living room and straightened his clothes before replacing the glasses on his face and sorting out his wayward shock of hair. Walking out of his room, he was brought up short by what he saw in the hallway. On a small podium was a statue, an eagle with its wings outstretched, clearly meant as a lectern for some weighty volume. He’d passed it countless times and not thought anything of it. But it had been there, in his dream. He tried, but he couldn’t remember where he had got it from originally. It had to hold some importance, because he had noted it specifically in the dream. His head started to ache again and he removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, where the pain seemed to start. It settled behind his eyes and nausea roiled in his stomach. This had become such a frequent accompaniment to his days that he had thought of just switching off his digestive system altogether but then there would be nowhere to put coffee or whisky, and he very much wanted both of those lovely things in his life. He replaced the glasses and went in search of the former to fortify him for dealing with the bloody cherubs again.

Espresso in hand, he sauntered into the living room, and stopped. The air reeked of booze. There were bottles on every surface and a few on the floor. The two angels were curled round each other on the sofa. The larger one had their face smushed into the cushions, their jacket and tie had been discarded and lay on the floor. The smaller one was draped round them and was snoring gently, her face soft and sweet in sleep. Crowley walked to the window and briskly pulled up the blinds, noting the rattling sound they made as they rose with some satisfaction.

“Good morning, inebriates!” he bellowed, “time to be up and at it. Come on, rise and shine, no doubt you have lots of good to do. Let’s be having you!”

Miniel opened one eye and looked at him, “Fneurgh?” she managed, and closed the eye again, lifting her hand to her forehead. Cherubiel slept on. Miniel tried raising her head, decided it was a very bad idea and let it fall again.

“Oooh, ’s too bright. Don’t feel well…ooh, my heeaad.”

“What the fuck did you two idiots think you were doing? Where did all this drink come from? Some of it’s mine but I didn’t have this much in, not by a long chalk.” Crowley scanned the room, taking in the plethora of bottles.

“Thanks for drinking all my good Scotch, by the way, you bloody pair of hedonists.”

“Can you keep the noise down, dear boy?” muttered Cherubiel from their prone position on the sofa, without opening their eyes, “you’re terribly loud over there.”

Miniel sat up with a groan and ran her fingers through her halo of curls. She took Cherubiel’s hand in hers and rubbed it absently.

“We tried some of the whis-ky and it was a bit funny tasting at first but we got used to it. Then we had a go at some of your other liquids. I started feeling really happy and funny and I told Cher but they weren’t feeling it so they drank more and then we ran out, but we worked out how to make it and just kept on bringing more of it here to drink. It was fun, I liked the way it made me feel and we had such a lovely time. I couldn’t stop laughing for a while. Then the room started spinning. Did you know that your room spins? So we thought we would have a nice lie down. My head reeeeally hurts,” she whimpered.

“I feel _very_ unwell,” moaned Cherubiel, “have I caught some sort of illness?”

Crowley was impressed at the level of drunkenness despite himself. It crossed his mind that if this was anything to go by, these two might be quite amusing to have around. He wasn’t prepared to share his amusement with them at the moment though, so he put on a glower and snapped his fingers, washing out the empty bottles and sending them to the big recycling bins at his local Sainsbury’s. He did this on autopilot, Aziraphale was very big on recycling and post-drinking-session bottle care had been ingrained in him without him really noticing.

“Bloody ignorant _angels_. You’ve got what is called a hangover because you’ve drunk extraordinary amounts of alcohol. If you concentrate, you’ll be able to call up a miracle and remove the after effects.”

Cherubiel sat up carefully and they and Miniel looked at each other. They both frowned and winced and then their expressions changed, as they grimaced through the unpleasant aftertaste they were both experiencing.

“Urgh, yuk, ooh… I suppose that’s… that’s _better_ , thank you so much Mister Crowley, very kind,” said Cherubiel, brushing down their chest and removing the wrinkles from their waistcoat. They looked around, located their jacket and tie and put the jacket on, turning up the collar of the still blindingly white shirt in preparation for tying the tie

“Hmmm,” said Crowley, frowning at the larger angel, “that’s okay,and it’s just Crowley. There’s coffee in the kitchen if you want some. Might be a good idea.”

“Ooh, I’ve never tried Earth coffee,” said Miniel, brightly, “I am loving being down here in a corporation, there are so many intriguing things to do with it, aren’t there Cher? We’ve never been on Earth at the same time before, it’s quite a blast.”

Cherubiel was tying their tie, a look of intense concentration on their face as they addressed Crowley directly.

“And how are you Mist - er, _Crowley_. Did you have a think about what we spoke of last night?”

“I have thought about it, yeah,” said Crowley, walking to look out of the window across to the Houses of Parliament and running his hand over the back of his head, uncomfortable at the vulnerability he was feeling “I guess I do believe that someone has been messing about with my memories, for starters. I’m not sure about the rest of it but I suppose I can try to help. I can’t promise anything, so don’t get all excited,” he said, noticing how their faces brightened at this, “there was something, in a, mmm, dream last night, but I don’t remember that angel Az-whatever he’s called. Wish I knew which bastard did this to me, although I have my suspicions.”

“That’s wonderful news, Crowley,” said Miniel, “we have to go to Soho this morning and then back upstairs,” she pointed upwards with her index finger, “to sort a few things out but we will be back soon and then we can decide what might help you. Thank you so much, and for your hospitality.”

‘Yes, thank you very much,” said Cherubiel, getting up and offering Crowley their hand, “you are being extraordinarily tolerant. So sorry for drinking all of your Scottish. We will replace it, of course.”

Crowley took in the open expression of friendly interest on the impossibly perfect face of the ethereal being in front of him in astonishment, looked down again at the the proffered hand and took it, briefly. A day ago he would have said that he knew more or less what his life entailed and touching an angel would not have been part of the equation. Now, he couldn't be certain of anything any more and wasn’t sure if that excited or terrified him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Works quoted
> 
> From 'Preludes' by T.S. Eliot
> 
> From 'When I see the falling bombs' written in 1941 by F.R. Scott, when the London Blitz was at its height.


	11. But, my friend, what is love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley considers what he has been told about his recent past whilst working some mischief south of the river and feeds the ducks. Aziraphale despairs. There are two hedonistic cherubs loose in London getting up to all sorts of things, Crowley deals with the fallout.
> 
> Content warning for comedy marijuana use!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello people, Wednesday again, so time for another update. I hope you are all well and coping with the rather grim times we are living in. Keep safe and ignore the idiots.
> 
> Thanks as every to my outstanding Beta reader [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) and my lovely friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) who are such good friends to me.
> 
> As ever, if you can find the time to comment and leave kudos, the author would be very grateful.

_I’m the essence of a man spinning double-headed coins, and betting against himself in private atonement for an unremembered past._

Crowley was over at London’s South Bank, unenthusiastically causing some minor mischief on the underground network there to keep his hand in. He didn’t know why he bothered, as Transport for London seemed to do that kind of thing very nicely on its own, but since his commendations the previous year for the whole Southern Rail debacle (nothing of his doing, just pure human incompetence), he thought he ought to show willing to keep that utter dickhead Hastur off his back.

On his way back north of the river, he stopped again at St James’ Park, this time armed with some suitable food for the ever-hungry water fowl. They didn’t need bread, he knew this from somewhere, so he had bought some corn and seeds for them, it wasn’t very demonic of him, but he was past caring about that sort of thing for the moment. Feeding a few ducks was nothing on what he was getting involved with through the angels currently occupying his living room. A bevy of feathery forms made a bee line for him as he stood by the lake, across from the island that had been named after the birds in the sixteen sixties, and he haphazardly fired the foodstuff in their direction. Soon his feet were surrounded by their busy bodies and he watched their frantic competitiveness to eat with a melancholy amusement.

He wanted to think about everything he had learned the previous evening from the celestial oddballs who had barged their way into his flat. He hadn’t wanted to, no, he told himself, he _still didn’t_ , believe that there was some angel up there who cared for him. He didn’t like angels. _But he liked Miniel, she was funny, and sweet._ They were a bunch of self-righteous bastards who hated demons. _Cherubiel had thanked him, and shaken his hand._ They were, what would you call it? Hereditary enemies. _You should see how he grieves for you…he loves it here, but I can tell you this for a fact, he loves you more…_

Despite himself, he found his mind drifting. What would it feel like to be loved by an angel? Oh no, scratch that thought, not going there, he told himself. But his wayward imagination would not be gainsaid. He never had been able to subdue that trait in himself, his ravenous desire to ask questions: _What does he look like, this angel? Why has he risked the wrath of Heaven and told them about this love?How could they possibly have become friends, even? Why can’t he remember anything at all about it? Why? Why? Why?_

And the one that made him grit his teeth with fury, but that would not go away

_What would he find in me that was worth loving? Unforgivable, that’s what I am…_

No, fuck that, he really wasn’t going to go there. He looked skyward and cursed silently. Wasn’t it enough that his heart had been smashed into shards long ago, when all his good grace had been burned away with the white in his wings, and his eyes mutated to the sickly sulphurous hue they held now, as signs of his shame? What other forms of exquisite torture did that vengeful bitch up there have in store for him?

He scrunched up the bag that had held the duck food and went to throw it on the path. But that would be littering. He was a demon, he should be comfortable with littering. For some reason his arm dropped to his side, the plastic in his balled fist, and he lobbed it into a bin as he passed the gates to the park and wandered homewards.

_***_

Jophiel stood with Aziraphale while Anpiel sang another hymn of devotion. They had been singing together but Jophiel had signalled to Anpiel to keep going so that she could talk to Aziraphale without being overheard. The little messenger angel’s voice rose and fell, its pure tones echoing around the military compound, engendering uncomfortable emotions in the hearts of some of the soldiers who heard it. The rank and file soldiery were being affected by what was going on with regard to their notorious colleague and questions were starting to be asked in the mess room and during drill, little huddles of chatting personnel discussing and doubting for the first time in their lives, it made all of them uneasy and some resentful, although of which side, they were no longer quite sure..

Jophiel was a sensitive soul. She had been designed to oversee artistic creativity and this was reflected in the way in which she perceived creation. She was an artist herself, her carvings and illuminated manuscripts were loved and valued by many angels all across Heaven. As such, she abhorred violence and had avoided fighting in the Great War by means of staying in her Scriptorium and hoping for the best. And then there had been the tortuous business of documenting the Fallen afterwards. The whole experience had only served to deepen her distress at the very notion of conflict. It was for this reason that she had become involved with the group who were working to help Aziraphale. She could not bear the thought of the gentle angel she had known being made to submit to the regimen of the Host’s military wing. There was also the fact that she was Pravuil’s soulmate; where one of the two went, the other would surely follow. They were like night and day, Pravuil so forthright and firm in her approach, Jophiel understated and emotional. Pravuil, despite her formidable reputation, melted in the company of the other angel and relied on her for emotional support and affection. Jophiel in her turn found her confidence bolstered by Pravuil’s fierce love and constant appreciation of her talent and creativity. They complemented each other and had been together for a very long time.

Now Jophiel sat with Aziraphale and encouraged him to talk with her. He seemed distracted and low in spirits. He had already suggested to her that the cause was hopeless and that the group of angels should not be risking their own safety by coming to his aid.

“Aziraphale, you must not lose heart,” she counselled him, “think now, who would best represent you? You must think of someone who will be able to speak for you. Come dearheart, please, don’t give up.”

“Dear Jophiel, don’t think that I don’t appreciate what you are doing, but I really can’tconsider this now. There is no-one I could possibly countenance taking that risk on my behalf. I would prefer not to drag anyone else into this…this…mess.” He wrung his hands together and looked down at his lap, the slump of his shoulders laying bare his resignation. She sighed and changed tack.

“What shall we talk of then, dear Aziraphale? I can give you comfort while I am here, what would make you happy, just now?”

He looked up and smiled, his eyes were wet. Her warmth and compassion made it easier for him to be honest with her, and unburden himself of a little of his pain.

“May we… may we talk about… my time on Earth? It would be so good to tell someone real some of my…my memories. Would you mind terribly if we did that, my dear?”

She took his hand, her lovely face softening as she saw the expression of longing on his, instinctively understanding what it was he really needed to speak of.

“No, of course not, Aziraphale, I understand, I have my own sweetheart. Tell me about him, your bright boy, I would love to hear.”

She listened as he poured out the innermost feelings of his bruised and faltering heart, and when the tears fell, she took them softly from him. They would be needing them soon enough, for the trial.

_***_

Pravuil was working on some older parchments when she heard the knock on the frame of her open office door.

“Prav, darling, where are you?”

She raised an eyebrow, recognising the voice. She had seen Miniel about the place before all this had started, but they had only grown closer recently through their efforts on behalf of Aziraphale. She was finding that she rather enjoyed the other’s easy, affectionate ways and her blasé attitude to authority. The banter between them had become more like a proper friendship over the past few weeks. She left the store, coming up behind Miniel.

“Here I am, and don’t call me that,” she said, with affectionate exasperation, “what can I do for you, Miniel?”

“Oh there you are. Don’t be so stuffy darling. I’m looking for a file, need it for the Demon Crowley, he’s proving to be a bit of a tough nut to crack.”

“Causing you problems is he? What’s he actually like, is he all,” she shivered slightly, “fire and brimstone then?”Pravuil removed and put her white cotton gloves on her desk and sat down behind it, looking across at the other angel and smiling.

“No, not at all. Oh, he’s awfully grouchy and grumpy and gives us all this _attitude_. And the language is delightfully colourful, but he’s,” she thought for a minute, “not actually particularly _demonic_ at all, in fact, if I didn’t know what he was, I would say that he was a bit of a sweetie. There’s anxiety there, tons of that, but underneath he’s kind of oddly _decent_. All a bit disconcerting. Anyway, he’s royally, as they say, _pissed off_ , at having had his memories messed about with. The problem isn’t with his attitude so much, it's that he can’t remember anything at all about our dear Aziraphale, so we need those photographs from the EO Office. Can I have the file, would that be okay?”

“Oh yes, it’s back, I’ll go and fetch it and you can sign it out,” she stopped and thought for a moment, “actually, no, maybe best not create an audit trail. I’ll just trust you. I can trust you, can’t I Miniel? You won’t go losing it, will you?” Even under these circumstances, Pravuil’s instincts as an Archivist were not to lend out a file in her care without paperwork. This is just an Archivist thing and is consistent across all the many universes in which they exist.

“Of course I won’t darling. I was just worried about taking it in case Gabriel wants it again.”

“Don’t worry about that, dear,” said Pravuil, drily, “I can deal with _Gabe_ , if he comes here looking for it, I know exactly how I’ll handle him.”

“Wonderful, I’ll get it back as soon as I can, don’t fret your little super-organised head about it,” Miniel’s eyes danced with amusement and Pravuil rolled her eyes and tutted as she took the huge ring of keys to the personnel records stores off its hook, and went to retrieve the file.

***

Crowley had spent much of the afternoon wandering about London. He had stopped for a coffee and spent some time in the cafe on his phone, annoying people on Twitter and Mumsnet. They were so easy to wind-up on there. He had left the site having been banned, again. Worth it though, to rile up some closed-minded middle-class matrons with too much time on their hands.

He was in the corridor of his building, walking from the lift towards his flat when he smelt it. That distinctive, heavy scent, sitting on the cusp between acrid and sweet. Weed. Someone was smoking weed in the building. It was odd, he thought, the other proprietors of the flats in this particular block were much more likely to be aficionados of the old Columbian marching powder than herb, but he supposed anything was possible. They were a sybaritic lot, the denizens of Mayfair, in his experience. Spoiled, rich fuckers for the most part. He lived here the better to mess with their privileged, entitled little lives, after all.

He opened the door to his flat and the smell redoubled itself and made a determined assault on his olfactory organs. It was coming from his flat after all. There was music playing in his living room, Jimi Hendrix, he recognised the sublime guitar riffs tumbling into the air. Oh yes, he was bloody experienced all right, just not with this sort of thing. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

The scene that met his eyes was in some ways similar to that which had graced them that morning. Both of the Heavenly Host currently residing in his abode were ensconced on his leather sofa. Min was still in her jeans and t-shirt. Cherubiel had changed into bright yellow women’s jeans and a tie dyed shirt in yellow and purple with bell-shaped sleeves. They had a hot pink feather boa round their neck and was wearing mirror shades. Their beautifully shaped marble-white feet were bare. There was an open bag with green bud spilling out of it on Crowley’s coffee table with a plastic grinder and a disposable lighter next to it. Beside that, still smoking gently, was a tall, bright yellow bong.

Miniel was doing her best to sing along with Jimi in a musical voice that was somehow beautiful even though the juxtaposition of his lyrics with her pure vibrato was rather incongruous, like a coloratura singing the Sex Pistols.She sat, cross legged behind Cherubiel, who had their long legs stretched out along the cushions of the sofa, and was braiding their hair. Cherubiel’s head was tipped back and every so often, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to their hairline or temples. The pair were entirely oblivious to him, the feeling of love in the room palpable. He looked on the couple and saw a thing that he was a stranger to, yet was aware of an overwhelming feeling that it was something that he craved, above all else. He cleared his throat.

Both blond beings turned their heads to look at him and smiled, lazily. Miniel’s eyes were slits, what could be seen of the whites, were, he saw, quite red. They were both, if he was any judge, blitzed out of their tiny, cherubic gourds.

Miniel waved at him, “Hello darling, we were wondering where you’d got to.”

“What the unholy fuck do you two think you’re doing?” He snapped his fingers and turned the music off.

Miniel giggled, a bubbling sound that only served to annoy Crowley further. He stood with his hands on his hips, looking across at them.

“That’s such a cross face, darling, don’t be like that. We’ve been to So-ho.”

That would explain it, he supposed. Cherubiel sat up, removing their glasses, their hair, half braided, looked beautiful against their shoulders. ‘Hello,” they said, slowly and then closed their eyes again, lost in their own stoned little world.

“You two are fucking unbelievable,” said Crowley, starting to see the absurdity of the situation, “first you start the day with a monster hangover after having drunk enough booze to fell a rhino, then you go off to Soho and do a bloody drug deal. Is this the kind of thing you angels get up to these days then, or what?”

Miniel shifted on the sofa so that she was facing Crowley, took Cherubiel’s hand, and started to speak.

“We didn’t mean to, darling, we were just looking around, trying things out, you know. This place is so wonderful, so many things to see, and smell and taste and everything. It’s all so _exciting_ ,” she waved her free hand around as she spoke, “we went to a _marvellous_ street market, it was amazing. We tried consuming gross matter. There were so many different kinds of cooked things there. It was scrummy. We had pizza, and curry and cakes and Cher had crepes, they were really good,” the enthusiasm of her bright words bubbled over, “then we bought Cher some clothes. They look lovely, don’t they? _So_ much more fun than the suit. Then we met this _gorgeous_ man, he had the most amazing hair, all twisted round and long, right down to his bottom. We spoke with him, didn’t we Cher?”

“Mmm hmm,” was all that Cherubiel managed, they tilted their head back against the sofa cushion and seemed to drift off, a little smile playing over their beautiful features.

“He was ever so friendly,” continued Miniel, seemingly invested in giving Crowley the whole story, blow by blow, as it were, “after we had been chatting for a while he asked me if we were high. I told him we were quite high but not as high as the Seraphim. He looked at me a bit funny and then he said that if we wanted to get really high, he had some, now, what did he call it? Ah yes, _really good shit_. I told him that I didn’t think we were looking for anything like that but he was quite insistent that we would like it. When he showed us, it wasn’t excrement at all but a herb. So we bought some.”

The dealer, Amos, had in fact been having a really awful day. He’d been stuck on the tube for hours coming back from Southwark earlier on that afternoon and then a friend who was going to buy half a kilo off him had let him down claiming that he was out of funds. He had spotted the pair at the street market immediately owing to their striking hair and extravagantly enthusiastic behaviour. He had thought initially that they were on something, but after a while chatting to the cute chick with the angel t-shirt, he realised that this was just what she was like. The tall dude in the shades hadn’t said much, but he kept on smiling, and there was a good vibe about the pair of them that he had found really attractive. The original plan had been to sell them a bag of finest oregano, but something stopped him from doing that and directed his hands to the bag of good bud that he had been earmarked for the regular who had let him down. After they had left him, he found that his day improved considerably. The woman that he had been with for fifteen years told him that night that she had decided to accept his proposal that they move in together, as long as he gave up dealing. By the end of the month, he had a new job at the local garden centre and his lady was moving her stuff into his flat. The following year, they had their first child together. Miniel wasn’t the angel of love for nothing.

“He was so helpful, he told us it was best not to smoke it with to-bacco, and sent us down the road to this wonderful little shop where we bought the smoking machine.”

“Hallelujah, a drug dealer with health advice,” said Crowley, darkly, “whaddyaknow.”

“It’s such fun,” continued Miniel, ignoring this, “whooo, when we started, it was a bit like flying. Would you like to try some, Crowley?”

“Nope, you sensualist angel. What the fuck do you think you are doing, trying to tempt a demon to take drugs, eh?”

Crowley had smoked weed before, of course, but he avoided it these days on the grounds that it made him paranoid. Demons generally begin life with a base level of paranoia, it is the healthy choice in the environment of Hell where everyone genuinely is out to get you. What he didn’t need now was any more of that kind of thing, thank you very much.

Crowley was smiling, his full and genuine smile, at the indulgence and moral ambiguity of this particular one of the Lord’s Shining Ones.

“You are aware you have broken the law of this country, doing this, aren’t you?’ He sniggered at the look this question generated on her face.

“Oh!” she said, and then smiled, a glorious dopey thing that made Crowley laugh out loud.

“I don’t think human laws apply to us,” she said, loftily, then her brow creased in puzzlement, “what is wrong with smoking herbs anyway, I don’t understand. Is drinking the intoxicating liquids against the human law too?”

“No, my stoned hedonist of an angel, it isn’t. That’s a complicated argument that I don’t think you are in any fit state to have.”

Miniel lifted the bong, lit it and took a hefty hit, holding the smoke in for a few seconds and then letting it go, just like the nice man had told her to do. Then she passed it to Cherubiel who accepted it wordlessly, nodding their head like someone who was following music that only they could hear.

“Well, I don’t think that makes any sense at all,” she pronounced, her head wreathed in smoke. She regarded Crowley with a steady gaze through half-lidded eyes.

“You’re beautiful you know. And really nice. Aziraphale always did have good taste.” She smiled sweetly at him through her high, appearing to glow against the gloomy walls of Crowley’s flat.

“Nnngh,” Crowley was floored by this non-sequitur, “I am not nice, you cretin,” he hissed, “I’m a demon, I am not fucking _nice_.”

Miniel continued to smile, ignoring the last statement.

“I love the whole aesthetic you have going on,” she said, waving her hand up and down, indicating his long figure in front of her, “those _trousers_ , darling, absolutely _scandalous_.”

Crowley gasped, a blush hurrying across his face. This angel was _so_ not what he expected a cherub to be like.

“Fucks sake, leave it out,” was all he managed to say, walking across to his drinks cabinet to seek solace in good old-fashioned alcohol before remembering that he no longer had any, owing to angelic overindulgence.

There was a silence.

“Crowley,” began Miniel.

“ _Yes,_ ” he replied, testily, dreading what was coming next.

“Got any biscuits?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote at the beginning of the chapter is from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	12. Now… about these headaches…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley makes a visit to a significant place from his past and meets a number of humans, the whole experience causing him much disquiet. How is the Principality Nithael coping in his new role?
> 
> The plot thickens, as Crowley is starting to remember things for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to my most excellent Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) for all support and brilliant chats in our natural habitat (the wee, small hours of the morning) and to my lovely friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) who make me happy with emails and more chat about all sorts of subjects, including magic underwear.
> 
> I really do appreciate any comments and kudos you might think to leave, and thank you for reading. I have enjoyed writing this so much and answering people who have left their thoughts on it.
> 
> Take care everyone, it's a frightening world at the moment. The people in this fandom are such a blessing, we are united in our love of something special and that means such a lot right now.

Crowley had left the two angels asleep on the sofa after taking pity on Miniel and ordering in some Chinese takeaway, chocolate and biscuits for them both. Miniel had smiled at him and made it obvious that she thought he was _nice_ or _kind_ or one of those other, awful, sickening things, without actually saying so. They had exchanged half-hearted insults in an affectionate way until Cherubiel had woken up and joined them, their usual deliberate politeness mellowed into a gentle, friendly mood under the influence of THC and good food. Crowley had conjured himself up some more Talisker and the three of them had talked into the night about neutral topics. Both angels were very knowledgeable on astronomy and Crowley had indulged himself by telling them what he could remember about his star making days. The net result of this unexpected socialising was that he realised that not all angels were bastards, some were clearly good company, kind and amusing.

The next morning Crowley woke with his usual headache and nausea and that unearthly, unsettling fluttering in his chest. He groaned and rolled out of bed, pulling on a robe and padding through to his kitchen in search of coffee. He set up his insanely expensive coffee machine to make a pot of the rich, dark roast that he favoured and sauntered through to his living room with a view to asking the angels if they wanted any. He reached the doorway and paused, realising he was intruding somewhat when he took in the scene in front of him. Miniel and Cherubiel were lying together on the sofa, kissing passionately. Miniel lay on top of the larger angel, their legs tangled together. She had their cheek cupped softly with one hand while the other was placed on their chest over their heart, trapped between their bodies. Cherubiel had one hand in the smaller angel’s hair, fingers tangled in her pretty platinum curls, the other at the small of her back, holding her close. Their faces were slotted together, and they moved against each other in a lovely, sensual way, every so often separating their lips to look into each other’s eyes, murmuring endearments and kissing each other’s noses, cheeks and eyelids. Crowley blushed but could not look away for some seconds, transfixed by the beauty of the scene and moved by the obvious love and devotion he saw written clearly on both of their faces.

His throat felt as if his heart was rising up into it, depriving him of breath. He looked away, his eyes filling with unaccustomed tears. Something about what he was seeing moved him intensely. The knowledge came to him suddenly from somewhere deep inside himself. Of course an angel would want to be held, and kissed and receive sweet words of adoration. He felt pain in his chest as if his heart was actually breaking, and could not suppress a small choked sound from making its way out into the quiet of the room.

Miniel looked across and saw the demon bent over slightly in the doorway, his eyes closed, face creased with anguish, one hand over his mouth. She pushed herself up on her hands, giving Cherubiel’s cheek a last, reassuring caress, and placed her feet on the floor, straightening up and then walking lightly over to where Crowley stood.

“Darling, whatever is the matter?” she cooed, her hands fluttering near Crowley, not knowing whether to touch and offer comfort.

Crowley stuttered and gasped, tears making their way down his cheeks from his tightly closed eyes.

“I miss him, I jusst misss him, so much, sso much, I…”

Miniel looked across at the other angel, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, as they sat up at these words and looked hopefully back at her.

“Miss who, darling? Who are you taking about?” Her eyes were wild looking back at Cherubiel who had come across to stand by her. Perhaps this was the breakthrough they had been hoping for.

“ ** _I don’t know!_** ”

It was a hoarse cry of pure pain and longing, and she took hold of him then, drawing him into the shelter of her arms and holding him while he trembled and sobbed. He resisted for a moment and then submitted to her embrace, allowing himself to be held for a little while.

Once the storm had passed, he pulled away, saying only, “I can’t…” before leaving the room at a run. The angels heard the door of his room slam and looked at each other, saddened by the other being’s obvious distress.

“Best leave him be for now,” said Cherubiel, “he’ll be back in his own time. This cannot be in any way easy for him.”

Crowley emerged from his room sometime later, impeccably dressed in leather trousers, a black silk shirt, black waistcoat and sharply cut suit jacket with ebony buttons. His hair was immaculate and the dark glasses were very firmly seated on the bridge of his nose.

“You said something last night about taking me somewhere significant,” he rasped out to the two cherubs, still seated on his sofa. His face was set and devoid of any emotion. “Let’s go then, shall we? Get it over with.”

Miniel and Cherubiel stood and collected themselves, putting on shoes and grabbing their things while Crowley waited in the corridor, twirling the keys to the Bentley in his restless fingers, that action the only indication that he might be less collected than he seemed.

For some reason connected to an instinct to protect their driver, neither angel felt comfortable about taking the front passenger seat next to the demon, both settling themselves in the back of the sleek black and grey car.

“What a beauty, darling,” said Miniel, “does it go _very_ fast?”

“You’ll see,” said Crowley, the ghost of a smile passing over his face. He started the engine, and the radio immediately came to life, blaring out, the lyrics obvious to all the occupants of the vehicle:

_No one on earth could feel like this_

_I’m thrown and overflown with bliss_

_There must be an angel_

_Playing with my heart…_

Crowley growled and thumped the off button on the console. There was a silence and then it started up again:

_I walk into an empty room_

_And suddenly my heart goes boom_

_It’s an orchestra of angels_

_And they’re playing with my heart…_

“Sstop it, you bastard,” Crowley hissed, trying desperately to turn the machine off again. There was a burst of static and a different tune started up:

_I believe in angels_

_Something good in every thing I see_

_I believe in angels_

_When I know the time is right for me_

_I cross the stream,_

_I have a dream…_

“What have I told you about playing ssoppy ssshit?” Crowley’s voice was harsh and angry, “you sstupid fucking machine, stop being sso embarrassing,” he turned to the angels on the back seat, and said abruptly “I never lissten to Abba.” They looked at each other in bewilderment, having no clue whatsoever to what he was talking about.

The radio fizzled again and settled on an old favourite:

_I’m burning through the sky, yeah_

_Two hundred degrees_

_That’s why they call me Mister Fahrenheit_

_I’m travelling at the speed of light_

_I wanna make a supersonic man out of you_

Crowley put the car in gear and placed an enthusiastic demonic foot on the accelerator, setting off as fast as the Bentley would go. The two angels, unaccustomed to such acceleration, made noises appropriate to their size and stature as the car lurched forward, Cherubiel shouting “Aaagh!” and clinging on to the edge of their seat, Minel, in her turn, uttering a musical squeak and clutching at the other angel’s muscular thigh.The tyres squealed as Crowley turned out of his parking space and sped off down the road, the Bentley hardly needing to be steered as it negotiated a route that it had been accustomed to taking for well over seventy years.

***

The Principality Nithael sat in Aziraphale’s chair in the bookshop surrounded by towers of books. He had been outside the shop a few times in an attempt to do his duty but the confusing noise and bustle of humanity frightened and alienated him. After a few unfortunate run-ins with rude humans who had spoken to him in terms that he found utterly bewildering, he had retreated back into the warm gloom of the shop, finding its environs curiously comforting in contrast to the big, incomprehensible world outside.

Over the days that had succeeded his rather precipitate arrival on Earth, the bookshop had slowly warmed to him, sensing that he was just as sad and in need of comfort as it was. They had grown accustomed to grieving together and the angel now found the palpable atmosphere of melancholy that pervaded the shop a source of solace rather than something eldritch and sinister. The bookshop’s attentions took the form of recommendations of reading matter imposed on the celestial being in a rather vigorous and physical wayby means of works being dropped in his lap while he sat in his chair or aimed at the expanse of his stocky corporation if he was up and about. Initially, he had been confused by these interactions and had looked at the volumes in puzzlement, even when the appropriate pages were flapped at him as if a supernatural wind were blowing through the small alcove where he had found his place of repose. After a while, he had begun to take the hint and taken up reading, utilising Aziraphale’s nifty glasses to do so, as he felt they imbued him with a more genteel and scholarly air.

The shop, influenced as it was by over two hundred years of close proximity with an extremely empathetic ethereal being, was able to sense Nithael’s essential nature as one of life’s eternal foot soldiers and regaled him with books on military themes. As a consequence, he had worked his way through the poems of Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sasson, Robert Graves and Rupert Brooke and dabbled a bit in Tennyson and Randall Jarrell. He had steadfastly ploughed through the many pages of _War and Peace_ and cried a lot as he read _All Quiet on the Western Front_. There was laughter at and a heartfelt enjoyment of The _Good Soldier Svejk_ and _Catch 22_ , and a genuine military being’s appreciation of the golden thoughts of Sun Tzu. The net result of all this was a marked change in the angel’s sensibilities.

One of the pervading characteristics of all of this literature was a disinclination on the part of the authors to see the prosecution of hostilities between opposing forces as in any way a desirable aim. It would not be fair to suggest that his reading had converted Nithael to the cause of pacifism, but it was definitely the case that he was no longer inclined to view the waging of war as an admirable end in and of itself. As is common in those that are exposed to great literature on any theme, he had found his consciousness expanded and his empathy increased. This, along with his continual longing for his partner in Heaven, had rendered the Principality a kinder, and more gentle being than he had been when he had first set foot over the threshold of this most singular and remarkable building.

The reading material was accompanied by a continuous soundtrack of suitable and appropriate music, played on Aziraphale’s wind up gramophone. This consisted of a lot of mournful ballads about men lost to the rigours of war, although one memorable evening, he had been treated to a rousing rendition of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, to accompany the Tolstoy, an experience he had initially found rather alarming owing to the presence on the recording of real cannon. Field guns had, as yet, not become a feature of celestial warfare.

When he became aware of the the gurgling growl of the Bentley’s engine outside the bookshop door, he was in the middle of reading Ernest Hemingway’s _A farewell to arms_ and was in the throes of grief as he neared the end of the novel. A soft ballad was playing on the gramophone near one of the pillars of the shop when the door opened, the bell sounding out its cheerful jingle, and two figures appeared in front of him as he wiped his eyes and tried to pull himself together.

_And if I was a small bird_

_And had wings to fly_

_I would fly o’er the salt seas_

_To where my love does lie_

_And with my fond wings I’d_

_Beat over his grave_

_And kiss the pale lips that_

_Lie cold in the clay…_

***

The two angels had staggered out of the Bentley, faces pale and tinged with green after the rigours of the, albeit short, journey. The car had almost parked itself, pulling up outside the corner building with hardly any conscious action at all on the part of the demon. Crowley had opened his door and looked up at the facade of the shop, noting the pillars on each side of its entrance. There was a memory there, something from a dream but he could barely snatch at it before it was gone. The angels went ahead of him, saying something about warning the current occupant of their arrival, but he was hardly listening, absorbed as he was in looking around him, feeling the wraith of memories playing about his mind.

_A.Z. FELL AND Co. ANTIQUARIAN AND UNUSUAL BOOKS_

_Why does reading this make him feel so strange?_

Shaking his head to rid himself of these fancies, he took a few steps forward and walked through the door between the pillars, hearing a small musical sound above him as the shop’s bell bounced and reverberated. He could see Miniel and Cherubiel talking with a stocky figure in a brown double-breasted suit who resembled nothing so much as a squat, badly put together chest of drawers. He had a couple of pages in his hand and appeared to be weeping while the ever sympathetic Miniel was holding his hand and patting him on the shoulder.

It was the smell that got to him first. His eyes had yet to accustom themselves to the darkness within the shop after the brightness of the London street outside, so he could not see that much of what the building was like inside other than the impression of a circular structure, with light radiating from some sort of oculus above and the dense presence of many, many books, shelved and stacked together. The smell wound its way into his senses, confusing and disturbing him.

He swallowed and made himself walk forwards, catching the end of what the angel in the suit was saying to Miniel and Cherubiel.

“… I just miss my Nan, I miss my Nan so much…”

Ridiculous, this being was an angel, a Principality as he understood it, one of Heaven’s soldiers, how could he possibly have a grandmother to miss? Crowley walked on past the trio, ignoring Cherubiel’s curious scrutiny, to an area where there was an aged Chesterfield sofa with paisley and tartan patterned throws draped over its back. Piles of books were stacked around an old armchair, its cushion well worn into the shape of the comfortable seat of whoever regularly took their rest there.

Crowley was starting to feel faint and nauseous, his usual saunter devolving into more of a stagger as he looked up at the shelving, the metal spiral stair, the mezzanine with its compass point brass letters gleaming dully, all outlined in an inchoate glow from the glazed area above it, ethereal and ghostly in the afternoon light. There was a little cherub statue, rather hideous, and other nicknacks distributed through the space. An ancient rotary dial phone and even older cash register sat on a desk standing between the dark oak shelving.

The bookshop, sensing his presence, perked up immediately. This was not the Master, but it was The Other One, the one the Master loved. It made him welcome in the only way it knew how:

_Ooh you’re the best friend that I ever had_

_I’ve been with you such a long time_

_You’re my sunshine and I want you to know_

_That my feelings are true_

_I really love you…_

Crowley recognised the song and looked over to the machine, noting that there was no disc on the turntable, which was spinning with no stylus upon it. Still the song continued, its familiar lyrics stirring him strangely in this liminal space.

That smell though, it assailed him anew and he knew it and all of a sudden he was totally overwhelmed, drowning in a sense impression that hit him in the solar plexus with the force of a well-placed fist. His snake senses could taste the odour. It was the essence of all sweetness: paper and leather, wine and lavender, sandalwood and neroli, tea and sweet biscuits, sunshine and newly cut grass. Love, so much love.

_Home._

He closed his eyes, swaying slightly, tasting the scent again…

_It was burning, he was on the floor in a pool of water, and it was burning, hungry flames racing up the wooden struts of the shelving. Flakes of flaming pages rained down. His ears were filled with the greedy sound of conflagration, crackling, hissing, spitting. Bookspines curled and charred. His legs splayed like a broken doll in front of him as he thrust his hands into his hair, screaming out his pain. It was over, everything was over, the world had ceased to matter and he might as well just wait to die…_

He ran, ignoring the half heard syllables of his own name from angelic lips behind him. He pushed his weight on to the ball of his foot, and flexed the muscles of his thigh, powering his slight frame out and away, through the door that rattled and clattered at his passing and into the light and air. He took a deep breath in the space of a stride, and kept on going, leaving shop, car and angels far behind him.

_***_

He stopped running when he was out of breath. Coming to and looking around him, he was aware that he wasn’t entirely sure where he was. He was just about to reach for his phone to help orientate himself when he heard a female voice calling his name.

“Cooee, Mr Crowley!” There was a woman dressed in a garish orange cape of some description bearing down on him. She was followed by a disreputable figure that he felt he knew, but couldn’t immediately place.

“Fancy seeing you here, dear. On your own today are you?”

He stood, looking at her in puzzlement. The other figure caught up with her and his memory helpfully supplied him with the necessary details: Sergeant Shadwell of the Witchfinder Army, his politically rather naive human agent, recruited in the 1960s and increasingly useless in that role as the years had passed by them both. He was under the impression that Crowley was his own son, and the demon paid his retainer more out of a sense of pity these days rather than as a reward for services in any way effectively rendered. Shadwell was looking a little less disreputable today, in a shabby suit rather than his ghastly uniform coat and as he approached, he took the arm of the blonde in the orange. Evidently he had finally found a way out of his previously perennially lonely existence. He gave Crowley a salute, raising a hand hesitantly to his grizzled hair, and glanced behind the demon, as if looking for something.

“Yair no wi’ the southern pansy the day, then?” he asked. Crowley opened his mouth to say anything in response to that curious question but his attempts to parse a retort were cut off by the woman smacking the Sergeant firmly on the arm.

“Shadwell!” she remonstrated, “what have I told you about saying things like that?”

Apparently chastened, Shadwell shuffled his feet, looking down at them for a moment before speaking again.

“I mean yon Azilsartan, is he no here wi’ ye the now, then?” He was smiling and nodding at Crowley in a knowing way that was highly obnoxious. The woman elbowed him out of the way and stood in front of Crowley.

“So sorry, dear. That’s the name of his blood pressure pills,” she looked across at Shadwell, narrowing her eyes, “silly old fool,” she said, affectionately, then turning back to Crowley, she touched his arm, her voice confiding and warm, “he means Mr Aziraphale, of course. We thought we might see you together.”

She looked at him expectantly, her face changing when she noticed the expression of bewilderment on his.

“Oh, dear, so sorry Mr Crowley, I just thought…” she tailed off, “…after he was inside me that day, and I felt how he felt when he saw you again, I thought you might have, you know,” she nudged him with a sharp elbow, scrunching her nose up in an attempt at a winsome expression, “ _got together_ by now.”

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

That name again and a reference to something, a thing he really didn’t want to think too closely about

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are or what you are talking about,” he said, coldly. He shook off her arm, “Sergeant Shadwell,” he nodded to the erstwhile Witchfinder and turned to go. She grabbed his arm again.

“It’s a shame, is what it is, poor man. He loves you ever so much, you know. You should give him a chance, he’s such a nice bloke too, ever so polite, he was to me, that day.”

Crowley was entirely confused. Incapable of further comment, he extracted his arm once more, turned on his heel and walked smartly back the way he had come, ignoring Shadwell’s valedictory “Ha, what would ye expect fae the mob.” and the indignant noises that his companion continued to make on behalf of this _Aziraphale_. That bloody name again, would he ever be able to get away from it? He refused to think about the implications of what she had just said, even as his mind picked out the intelligible parts of what she had meant from the bits that were entirely inexplicable. She thought the same as the cherubs, that they were together, him and this bloody _angel_. He really couldn’t handle any more of this shit.

***

He arrived back at the bookshop to find the two angels outside its doors, talking with a tall man, with greying hair, smartly dressed in a suit, who appeared to be asking them a series of questions.Crowley walked up to Cherubiel, who was not actively involved in the dialogue, with the intention of offering them a lift back to his flat. He had no idea how much longer they intended to stay with him, given that their mission appeared to be abortive, but they had left some things in his living room, so he knew that they would have to go back there at least once.

When he arrived at the larger angel’s side, he found himself being addressed by the human, who raised his hand, as if he knew him. Oh no, not again, he thought, wary of any more awkward encounters. He had had quite enough of all of this for one day, there was a very large Scotch with his name on it back at his flat and he intended to make sure it didn’t get lonely for company of its own kind.

“Oh, hello there, Anthony, isn’t it?” The man was smiling and holding out his hand. Crowley took it and shook, automatically. “You’re Mr Fell’s, erm, Ezra’s partner, aren’t you? Seen you about now and again. Love the car. Just wondering where he’s got to, haven’t seen him for ages. Thought he might be on holiday. We’re wondering if he’s up for his usual at Pride this year? He hasn’t answered any of the committee’s emails and Gloria at Intimate Books said she hadn’t seen him for ages either. Shop looks all closed up. Is everything okay?”

While they had been talking a few people, seeing the group on the pavement, had wandered across from the surrounding shops. They all began asking similar questions, looking at Crowley.

“I’m Jill from Maison Bertaux, the patisserie, haven’t seen Mr Fell for ages, is he alright? We’ve been so worried…”

“I’m Mehmet, his barber, he didn’t came in for his regular, never known him do that, miss his appointment without letting me know. I love our little chats…”

“I’m Mi-Cha from Imarnie Nails, we haven’t seen Ezra for ages, he alright, then?…”

“…Rosie from the charity shop, I’ve been missing seeing him, he does enjoy looking through the books…”

The chorus of voices grew as more people joined those clustered around the bookshop door, a small crowd forming there, firing questions at him and talking to each other animatedly about when they had last seem ‘Mr Fell’ and what he had said to them. It all became too much. Crowley backed away, holding his hands up in front of his body as they pressed around him, their faces blurring together, voices blending into a meaningless babble. He looked round wildly trying to find the figures of the two angels, their ethereal faces a familiar anchor in the chaos that threatened to overwhelm him. Then suddenly Cherubiel was there, their height commanding, the strength of their voice cutting through the noise of the melee.

“Mr Fell is away at the moment,” they broadcast to the waiting people in their mellifluous tones, “he should be back very soon, don’t worry.”

They waved their hand in a graceful arc and the faces around them slackened and went blank as the miracle settled in their minds. They moved away happily and went back to their premises, forgetting everything that had happened over the previous few minutes.

“Crowley, darling,” Miniel took his arm as he was making his way to the Bentley. “We have to go back upstairs for a little while. We have something here that you should see,” she handed him a yellow file, bulky with paperwork, “take a look at the pictures in here when you get home. They may help jog your memory. It’s his last chance Crowley,” her face, near his, was kind but concerned, “his trial date is drawing very near now. Please try to remember. We will be back soon. Be well, my dear demon.”

He took the file from her, and, moved by her serious expression, found himself saying that he would do his best. Tucking the folder under his arm, he unlocked the door of the Bentley, placing the file on the passenger seat and starting the engine, driving away as the electric blue lightning of the angels’ departure streaked across the purple twilight looming over the London skyline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs quoted are:
> 
> There must be an angel by The Eurythmics
> 
> I have a dream by ABBA
> 
> Don’t stop me now by Queen
> 
> The bonny light horseman/broken hearted I wander A traditional Irish song that is over 400 years old, popular during the Napoleonic wars
> 
> You’re my best friend by Queen
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	13. We were… thousands of miles apart, but we were made for each other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finally views the file of photographs from the Earth Observation Office and finds a secret in his flat. The Archangel Gabriel doesn't get what he wants. Crowley receives more late night visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once more to my fabulous Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) for chats about head canon and angel names and loads more. Also to my lovely inspirational friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) for their support and friendship.
> 
> As ever, please leave comments and kudos as every little helps. These are troubled times, keep safe and sane and remember that love is still the most important thing.

It was quiet in the search room of the Akashic Archives. A few angels were dotted about, hunched over ancient texts or looking up information in more modern files for their work. Pravuil, as usual, sat at her desk, catching up with paperwork when she heard the tell-tale sound ofexpensive leather-soled shoes clipping across the ethereal marble flooring. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was, she kept her gaze firmly fixed on the page in front of her, waiting for him to speak before she raised her eyes to meet his.

“Pravuil!”

That hearty tone that she had come to heartily dislike. She knew why he was here in all likelihood, and she was ready for him, banking on his usual high-handedness for the success of her strategy.

“Gabriel,” she replied, her voice flat and lacking its usual warmth.

Pravuil had always previously had a good professional relationship with the Archangel. She had never been close enough to him to call him a friend, exactly, but remembered him from the early days as essentially benign. He had always been somewhat overbearing, heavy-handed and insensitive, but underneath that, there had been a sense of earnest goodness and dedication to duty that she had always been able to admire. In the intervening period, something in his nature appeared to have become twisted, and now, when she looked at him, she saw a coldness and an arrogance that was genuinely chilling. Since finding out about the outright cruelty of the recent treatment of Aziraphale, his ordeal in the Void and isolation within the military system, her opinion of Gabriel was hovering much closer to outright dislike. For the first time in her life, she found herself allowing personal feelings to influence her professional decisions.

“I need a file,” he began in a clipped tone, responding to the lack of warmth in her greeting, “the latest one created for the Principality Aziraphale.”

“New personnel files are current records, you’ll need to speak with Raduerial along at the Records Store, he’ll retrieve that for you, Gabriel.” She looked down at her paper again, as if dismissing him.

“I’ve just come from there, it’s a confidential file, he told me that you have it.”

She looked up again, held his eyes with her own, steadily, and raised her hand, pointing to indicate the docket where the request slips sat on the desk beside the one where she was working.

“You’ll need to fill out a request slip. We need the file reference, all of it, the classmark and sub-number and the covering dates.”

“Really?” he drawled, “I don’t have that with me, surely you can lay your hands on it. It was only returned a few days ago. It’s a yellow file,” he gestured with his fingers, “it’s about that thick, there’s paperwork and a lot of pictures, you can find it from that, can’t you?”

She raised her head again and looked at him with very thinly veiled contempt.

“Oh, right, it's yellow you say? And about, what?” her fingers crooked in an exaggerated version of the gesture Gabriel had made, “this thick? And there are pictures in it, uh huh? Oh well, no problem then. I’ll just go and look through all the _yellow_ files we have with _pictures_ in until I find it.”

Gabriel leaned his hip against her desk, rested his elbow in one cupped hand and placed the other against his face in an attitude of waiting. Pravuil rolled her eyes. Gabriel had always been rather slow to understand sarcasm when he came across it, largely because very few beings ever risked inflicting it on him.

“All the personnel files are _yellow_ Gabriel. Have you any idea how many _yellow_ files we have in there?” she enunciated precisely, indicating the repository with a jerk of her thumb.

“Can’t you just look it up on the system under his name?”

“Aziraphale has _hundreds_ of files under his name. There are whole shelves of his reports in there. I could be looking for months. It’s quite simple, Gabriel,” she said, smiling sweetly, “get me the file reference, I find your file. That’s how the system is designed to work. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a pile of accessioning here that won’t do itself. Good day to you.”

Gabriel looked at her for a moment, eyes narrowed, made a disgruntled noise that could have been ‘hmmph’ and made his way out of the Archives. Pravuil smiled to herself. If he came back before the file was returned, she had arranged it with a friend in SeraphTech that the system would be down. She was pretty sure that would hold him off until Miniel did return with the file in question. She just hoped that it would be enough to help the demon Crowley retrieve his stolen memories.

***

The file lay on his desk while he rolled a glass of amber liquid between his palms, working up the courage to open it. The reference AZI/Prin/6568 was written on the top right of the front cover, the title of the file printed below it:

The Principality Aziraphale - investigation of fraternisation with the enemy AD 1601 - Date

Below this it was stamped twice:

CONFIDENTIAL

TOP SECRET

Crowley sat on his throne, leaning back into it with his feet up on the desk just next to where the file lay. He rolled his head against the support afforded by the velvet behind it, and closed his eyes. The headache was sitting behind his brow again, settling there and extending back to dance at his temples in time with his heartbeat. The events of the day had been disturbing and disorientating and he had been very glad to get back to the relative sanctuary of his flat and some time alone. Now he was obliged to look at this wretched file, and he wasn't looking forward to seeing what it might contain.

He took a sip of the whisky, feeling it burn down into his uneasy stomach. Then, deciding to get it over with, he rocked forward, swinging his legs down and settling them under the desk, pulling the heavy chair in closer to it. He dragged the file towards him, set his mouth in a hard line, and opened the cover.

There were notes on the top in various hands, one of which he recognised as Ligur’s characteristic scrawl. The notations were copious, with dates and places mentioned, along with miracle reports stapled to them, apparently submitted by the angel Aziraphale himself. Beneath these pages was a thick stack of photographs. He pulled these from the file, setting it aside, and spread them out on the desk in front of him.

The first thing he noticed, with an almost physical shock, was the fact that these were all pictures of himself. There he was, his figure appearing in each one, varying only in costume and hairstyle. He was standing in the Globe Theatre, wearing that ridiculous goatee that he had thought was a good idea for a couple of years. He was in breeches and a tailcoat, his hair in a queue down his back, dark boots shining as the light caught them. There he was at St James’, a black stovepipe hat on his head, red sideburns curling round his cheek. He really shouldn't do facial hair, he thought, absently, as he continued to look. One of him in the beaded dress he had loved in Chicago during the 1920s, those had been fun times, he remembered. There were more modern ones too, mop top hair, round glasses and black jacket with the paisley lapels from the 60s, tight jeans, low-cut waistcoat and his cute little man bun from the early two thousands, and finally, the leather trousers, grey henley and short back and sides with perfectly coiffed gelled tousle at the front that was his current style.

He allowed his eyes to slide over the pictures to the figure that was persistently to his right in every image in front of him. This, then was the proof of what everyone had been telling him over the last few days. It was hard for him to take in. He knew he had been in the locations shown, but always alone, that was what he remembered. Here, though, was contrary evidence right in front of his eyes. He couldn’t turn them away, now he had started looking. It was real. He swallowed and continued to study them, passing the pads of his fingers over the surface of each of the pictures as he examined them in turn.

He was beautiful, this angel, unselfconsciously present in these confounding pictures, this _Aziraphale._ His linen-white curls, gently rounded, pink cheeks, prim, pretty cupid’s bow mouth and stormy blue-grey eyes, his well-wrought, curvy body, a few inches shorter than Crowley, shapely and strong, it was all beautiful. Then there was that smile. There was joy in it, pleasure and more than a hint of humour. It might be described as angelic, by those who had no knowledge of the truth of angels, but it was the spark of mischief there that made it more human than anything else. And the smile, that radiance, it was so clearly for _him._

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. After all the evidence that had been given him, insisting the reality of an angel’s affection, he had been dreading the idea of some simpering fool harbouring an inexplicable fascination with him. Whatever he had imagined, it certainly hadn’t been what he saw here. His immediate feelings of attraction, and the strange sensation that he had been waiting, breath held, for this for the whole of his life.

It was a revelation, yet as he continued to look, it came to him that, on some level he _had_ known. It was written into him somehow, part of who and what he was and had ever been, almost right from the start. He said the name over to himself, as he stared down at the frozen features of the being that had clearly been his companion from at least the beginning of the seventeenth century. Looking at the expressions on both of their faces in that picture from the Globe, he knew in his heart of hearts that it had been far longer than that, this friendship or association or whatever one would wish to call it.

It was possible to discern the nature of the relationship they had fashioned between them just by looking at their faces in the images. There was one in which the angel was clearly speaking with him, he had his eyes closed, eyebrows curving in an exaggerated arch above them and mouth open, one finger raised as if he was making a point. The Crowley standing by him radiated irritation, his expression an insolent grimace, as he listened, his mouth twisted to one side, poised to make a riposte to the angel’s no-doubt sanctimonious lecture. But the angle of his stance told a different story. His arms and torso were relaxed, and he was leaning in slightly, his desire to remain obvious. His body was saying what his face refused to, that he was content to be with the angel, that it was his choice.

He picked up another picture. In this, he was staring forward, while the angel was looking at the side of his head. He could not deny the softness he saw in the angel’s expression, there was an unabashed tenderness on that face, in that smile, the way that the pink lips were parted showing white teeth and the eyes narrowed in fondness. In another one, when the roles were reversed and he was the one looking, while the angel stared ahead, seemingly oblivious, he could scarcely credit what he saw of himself. He was not aware that his face could actually do that. The quirk of his lips into a pleased smirk, the way in which his cheek was relaxed, the slant of his brow that spoke of a smile that reached his eyes, invisible behind the smoked glass that covered them, the look of someone who was simply happy to be with the person they cared for most. It was almost unbearable. This was a pattern repeated again and again across the ages as the years had rolled by them when each knew the other was not looking, Unwitting, it appeared there, graven in their expressions, this affinity, this affection, this abiding connection. He could see it each time, more nakedly obvious as the pictures became more recent. Images of them deep in discussion, an undeniable sign of what they were to each other delineated in every plane and curve of their faces and bodies. They had betrayed themselves simply by being who they were.

Shaken by what he had seen and appalled at the extent of what he had lost when his memories had been stolen from him, he braced his arms against the top of the desk and stood, grabbing his heavy whisky tumbler and going to his living room in search of a refill. He stood and gazed out of the window, sipping his drink, oblivious to the view, the images he had just seen playing over in his mind. He was profoundly divided, what he knew now shockingly separated from what he was able to remember. Unconsciously, there was a reflexive understanding that he was familiar with all of this but his rational mind could not access this knowledge. It was almost dizzying.

But he knew it now for sure: there had been an angel in his life, and it was obvious that they had been close. His mind worked in overdrive: if he had cared so much for this other being, would he not have retained some souvenirs of their association? Could it be that there might be more evidence of their friendship here, in his flat? He knew himself well enough to understand that he would have hidden away anything he might have kept very carefully. His flat was spartan for a reason, to give the precise impression to potential visitors from Hell that he was an obedient and loyal servant. No suggestion of fraternisation with one of the opposing side could ever be allowed to be on public display here, where he might be visited at any time by one of his fiendish colleagues. So, where might he have hidden such a cache of artefacts from this forbidden liaison? He stalked around his flat, looking at his furniture, suspiciously.

It took some time, but he found it eventually, in a hidden compartment at the back of a cupboard. He felt that he had been prompted to find the hiding place by a feeling in his head that was almost a memory. It was a long, beautifully made plain wooden box, fashioned of cedar of Lebanon, the faint citrus smell of the ancient wood still discernible to his super-sensitive senses. He carried the box across to his desk and looked at it. It was warded to the maximum extent against both occult and ethereal forces, the wood positively humming with the signature of his own power. He undid the various enchantments and lifted the lid.

The contents were in dense layers, all treated with protective miracles to prevent deterioration. On top lay a brilliantly white flight feather, too long to be that of a bird. When he lifted it to his face, he could taste a tang of that bookshop smell that had been so profoundly disturbing to him earlier in the day. An angel feather then, from where, he couldn’t say, but like the box, it felt old. He stroked the edge of it, noting its brightness and the sheen of the vane as he tilted it to the light.

He began to lift out the other items. When he handled some, things that felt like the ghosts of memories tickled at his mind, asking to be let into his consciousness. There were opera, concert and theatre tickets and programmes going back to the late eighteen hundreds, beneath these were a series of smaller artefacts. A silk cravat, its ruffles of lace ornate and creamy white, a quarto copy of _Hamlet_ , clearly dated 1603. He opened it and, tucked into the edge of the frontispiece there was a scrap of paper, a note. The writing was faint:

_The ‘Bad Quarto’ - and we owe it all to you. Enjoy, my dear!_

_A_

_The Globe, and after, a tavern, small beer and conversation, he could almost remember but it was blurred and distorted…_

There was a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets too. When he picked it up, it fell open at a page and something dropped out. It was a flower, pressed there in tissue paper, its colour faded, but obviously once a glorious bloom of vivid, dark red.

_A boy and a garden, and love, so much love, blooming like the rose, made difficult with thorns…_

Beneath this, another volume, wrapped in linen. He unfolded the cloth to find a manuscript, bound in thick leather, Its pages creamy parchment. The first letter of the text, a ‘W’ was illuminated, the block of verse that descended from it surrounded by flowers twisting round a hand-drawn border. The ink was black and fresh, and he recognised the protection he had wound around it to keep it so for the centuries it had been with him. Those familiar opening lines, he knew them by heart, he found, Chaucer, his most famous work. A priceless treasure now, but then, a gift. A gift from an angel, a precious, personal thing, for _him_ , loved and cared for.

There were smaller items in the bottom of the box, some clay discs, stamped with crude numbers, a scrap of cloth, a faded blue ribbon, an oyster shell, a champagne cork, some ancient coins, a penannular brooch, a few wooden and pearl buttons. All hummed with significance, and Crowley felt sorrow that he could no longer call to mind what they had meant to him, what occasions they had marked.

He sat for a long time at his desk, the contents of the box spread out across it, the pictures sitting by them. Occasionally he would pick one of the items up and hold it in his hand, trying to retrieve something of its significance, his eyes a million miles away or thousands of years past. He was sitting like this, as the night’s darkness gathered in the corners of his flat, pooling out from them to shroud the place in shadows, when the sound of his door buzzer broke the silence with its strident rasp.

“Crowley, darling, it’s only us.” The familiar sweet sound of Miniel’s voice could be heard faintly from the corridor outside. He stood from his desk, leaving its surface covered in the papers and tokens from the box and went to answer the door.

***

It had taken Miniel a while to gather everything she needed, first visiting Jophiel’s office and then Pravuil’s to collect a small vial and reassure about the continuing safety of the file, respectively. Then she had to expend more time again to persuade the seraph Cahethal that she needed him to take a break from his work and travel to Earth with her and Cherubiel. It had been a long conversation. Seraphs were rarely concerned with the day-to-day aspects of life in the Heavenly realms, spending most of their time on even higher things than that. She was forced to give him a concise summary of everything that had happened from the presence of the Antichrist on Earth up to date, including a reminder of who both Crowley and Aziraphale were, before she had been able to encourage his elevated mind to descend to a level upon which he could make sense of what she was trying to convey. Once she got there, he proved to be deeply empathetic and concerned, and had agreed to take up a corporation and meet her at the escalators that would take them down into London, so that he might become acclimatised before they made their trip to Mayfair and Crowley’s flat. Now the three angels stood at the familiar door, waiting for the demon to come and give them access.

***

It took Crowley a few moments to register the fact that there were three figures at his door, rather than the expected two. The appearance of Miniel, in jeans and a new t-shirt that said, proudly, ‘I’m with big sexy’ with an arrow pointing to her left, and Cherubiel, who stood on her left oblivious, dressed in their impeccable blue suit once more, was expected.The figure behind them, tall and spare, was not. He gestured for them to enter, and as the third figure passed Crowley, the first thing he noticed was its flame red hair, in messy curls tumbling down its back.

Once they were inside, Crowley raised a casual arm to beckon and led them into his living room without so much as saying hello. He turned to the little group and raised a questioning eyebrow. He looked exhausted, Miniel thought, as well he might, given everything he had experienced that day.

“Crowley, thank you for seeing us, I know you must be tired but we needed to meet with you again,” said Cherubiel. He turned to indicate the slender, red-headed angel standing next to him, “may I introduce you to Cahethal, who has been kind enough to join us this evening?”

Cahethal stepped forward and extended his hand, bowing his head. When Crowley reached out with his hand for what he assumed was going to be a handshake, he found his forearm being circled by thin fingers, their grip gentle, as an unbearably soft voice spoke to him.

“Greetings, brother.”

The face that turned up to his as he said these words was almost frighteningly familiar. The skin was pearly white, with a few freckles sprinkled across its upper cheeks and the bridge of the nose. The nose itself was a sharp blade ending in beautifully shaped, flared nostrils. The large eyes were a luminous gold like a pedigree cat’s, but with round pupils. The mouth was a slash of red, with a generous underlip, the jaw well defined beneath it leading to a long white column of neck, swan-like and beautiful. His vermillion hair flowed in waves, brushed back from the slight dome of a high forehead. The angel wore a simple belted robe in an off-white colour, seemingly a homespun garment made of wool, resembling a twelfth century monk’s habit without the hood. He shone discreetly, an ethereally splendid figure with an air of lofty holiness that surrounded him. He smiled at Crowley, his face lighting up, clearly pleased to make the demon’s acquaintance.

“Hmmm, yeah, good to meet you, I think,” was all Crowley could manage under the onslaught of such unexpected warmth, “yeah, erm, take a seat.”

He indicated the sofa and they all sat, leaving him standing, looking at their expectant faces.

“How did you get on, darling?” began Miniel “with the photographs, I mean?” She looked at him, brows raised in expectation of something he didn’t think he was going to be able to provide.

“Fine, well, ah, not fine,” he frowned, frustrated at his inability to form the words to explain adequately how he had felt on viewing the images, “hnnng, fuck it, it’ss confusing. Ssometimes I think I am just about to remember something, and then it goes again.” He paced about and continued to speak, the occasional sibilance in his speech betraying his emotional turmoil, something he wished he could control better but was often simply unable to in times of extremis.

“I found stuff though, sstuff I’ve kept, from the past, so I know it’ss true, what you’ve told me. Hassn’t helped though,” he drew his hand through his hair, an expression of pure irritation passing over his face, drawing lines between his eyes, “I know, but I don’t remember, and it’ss driving me bloody demented thinking about it, if you want the truth.”

Crowley was tired and angry and all of a sudden, the feeling uppermost in his mind was that he did not want to anything more to do with this whole, strange and stressful business. He wanted them all to go away so that he could sleep, forget, get on with his life.

“We think we can help you,” said Cherubiel, in what he clearly thought was a reassuring tone, his voice loud like a bell in the quiet flat.

“Yeah?” said Crowley, voice oozing scepticism “You think? All you’ve done sso far is cause me ssleepless nights and annoyance. And what’s he doing here? He’s a sseraph, right? I get that all you all love Aziraphale and all that, yeah, you lot always did sstick together. But why can’t you just, I dunno, bloody work it out for yourselvess, hmm? Why do you have to get me involved, it’s not like you want to help me or anything is it? I’m just here as ssome sort of meanss to an end, aren't I?”

All of Crowley’s anger and frustration was coalescing in him now, pouring into the harsh words he was firing out at the angels sitting oh so smugly in front of him in his flat, having appeared in it and made everything infinitely worse, depriving him of what little peace of mind he had left after months of disturbed nights, headaches and nausea.

“You pitch up here,” he continued, working himself up into a state of anxious anger, “drink yoursselves into a ssstupor, get wrecked, eat all my food, tell me all sorts of sstuff that I really don’t want to hear about love and shit, and now you ssay you want to help me. Well, why would you want to do that, for me. I’m a _demon_ , remember? Tell me, why the _fuck_ are you doing all of thiss?” He was appalled to find that his eyes were filling with wetness after having said this, small tears forming at their outer corners.

There was a stunned silence after this outburst, and then Cahethal stood, crossed the room and took up a position by his side, speaking to him softly.

“Crowley, I am sorry it has come to this for you. It is true, we do wish to help Aziraphale, with his trial, but there is more to it than that. What has happened to you is profoundly wrong. You deserve to have your mind returned to you, whole and as it once was, and to feel again that bond you have with one you care for deeply. And besides,” he lifted his hand and touched Crowley gently under his chin, lifting his face so that the demon’s eyes met his, “we love our little brother and we miss you, very much.”

Crowley's breathing quickened as he suddenly found himself in territory that he habitually did not venture near; who he had been Before. He remembered little of it. Another thing that had been taken from him. All he knew was that he had laboured as a star maker, and he could pick out some of his work when he gazed up at the night sky.

“What the _fuck_ do you mean by that?” His voice wobbled between anger and entreaty, his eyes wide as he regarded the pale figure that still held his hand gently beneath his chin.

“Just what I say, dear brother,” CahethaI’s voice was tender and filled with fondness, “I may not remember your name, but I do remember you. When you took breaks from your tasks as a spinner of stars, you spent time with me, often. We talked of my work, of the trees, plants and flowers I was designing for the Garden and what would go best here on this little world. You helped me, without you, I would never have dreamed of being so bold.”

Crowley stared at him, speechless and astonished. The angel’s face radiated sadness and he continued, his voice wistful.

“I never could persuade you to stop asking questions. I missed you so much once I knew you were gone, and grieved for you. We all grieved for the Fallen, you remain in our hearts, despite the divisions that have been forged between our kinds now.” Cahethal dropped his hand and smiled, a beautiful thing, and Crowley felt a little uncomfortable, but also calmed and strangely placated.

“Well, that’s, well now…” Crowley, muttered, deflated, his anger leaving him as quickly as it had arrived. He would need time to think about this. He looked again at the other angel, and encouraged by his kindness, spoke to him again

“After all this…thing,” he waved his hand, vaguely in the air, “…is over, perhaps we could talk again, if, if you wanted, I mean?”

His face twitched into a tentative smile at Cahethal who nodded, his own smile growing brighter at this suggestion.

“I would be delighted, to come back here and spend time with you, if it would please you, Crowley.”

“Right, mnnyeah, I mean, yes, it would,” he cleared his throat, blushing slightly, and then turned to look at Miniel, who had been following the conversation, a pleased look on her bright face.

“Alright then, I’ll listen, what is it you’re suggesting here?”

Miniel stood up, her face taking on a serious expression, and showed him the little bottle that she had in her hand.

“Crowley,” she began, her husky tones intense with the importance of what she had to say, “we believe that if we cannot halt this trial and Aziraphale is demoted and has his,” her voice faltered, “wings taken, he will not survive it. He clings to his memories of you, dear Crowley, and without hope of regaining you, we believe he will give up, and lose his mind. The death of his essence shall surely follow, and even though it is a slow thing, it will be inevitable.”

Angels as immortal beings could not die in the way that humans die, but they could choose to fade away, if they felt that circumstances made it necessary. It had happened to a few whose mates had Fallen and who had taken the choice to assume their true forms, moving away into the endless vastness of creation, drifting to its edges and slowly fading out.

“These are Aziraphale’s tears,” Miniel continued, “shed whilst grieving for his loss since he has been back in Heaven. We collected them during time with him, trying to give him comfort, to little avail. He needs to choose a counsel and refuses to do so. We have built a case for him but it is his choice as to who represents him, and without that, the trial is forfeit and he will be guilty by default. We believe that if he knew you remembered him, he would take heart and work to save himself. As these tears have been shed for you, Crowley, we think that it may be possible to use them to restore your memories to you. Are you willing to try, dear demon?”

Crowley looked at her, then at Cherubiel and Cahethal and nodded, slowly.

“Perhaps,” he said, “tell me more.”

Miniel guided him back to sit on the sofa between her and Cherubiel, and took both of his hands in hers.

“We mean to drop these tears into both of your eyes. Cahethal must do it, as he is kin to you. I shall hold you, for it may burn a little, and Cher will say the necessary words. If your love is true, and I think it is, it will not hurt you beyond the initial discomfort. You can still say no, if you wish.”

“And if I don’t love him like you think, what then?” said Crowley, “what will these tears do to me?”

“They will hurt you, and you may lose your corporation and be sent back to Hell,” replied Cherubiel, “they will not kill you, but it is a risk, and of course there will be paperwork and an explanation to your superiors. It is something you must think on and decide. If you wish, we can leave you and come back again.”

He sat there, undecided. Part of him wanted nothing more to do with this, going back to Hell now, after what he had been told about his previous actions, could mean that he would never see the world again. They might keep him there for the rest of eternity. Crowley was stubborn though, and excelled at never doing what might be deemed in his best interests. Besides, given all he had found out today, he knew that there was something in him that would never find it easy to just walk away. He needed to know who he truly was, and tired as he was of all this angelic interference, he was equally tired of feeling so out of control of his life. He wanted himself back, to be as he had once been, fully in charge of who he was and what he remembered, all of it, for good or ill.

“Gimme a minute,” he said, and got up from where he was sitting, walking out of the room and into his office, perching on the edge of his desk strewn with papers and objects.

Crowley looked at the pictures again, and over at the feather and the books and little mementos of affection, running his hands over them. It was not him that had gathered these things together. He was not the person that had taken small reminders to hold so he might remember places and times with a precious one. He had been severed from the Crowley who had held that sweet smiling face in the pictures so dear that he had risked keeping these things, risked making those meetings, dared to show those feelings on his face. It was like something in a story he had heard once, featuring a stupid creature who had been so rashly reckless with its existence. It was another Crowley, from a different life, who had done those things. Should he take this chance and try to get that Crowley back, place his faith in the foolish demon who had dared to love an angel? Perhaps he should. He was curious, and he had never been able to resist his curiosity, and besides, he thought he might rather like that other, daring demon.

He returned to the other room to find the angels sitting on the sofa like three wise monkeys, with the same expression of apprehension on each of their faces.

“I’ll do it,” he said, crossing the room and sitting again by Miniel, who took his hands once more, squeezing them and smiling into his face.

“Thank you darling, I do believe that you won’t regret it one jot.”

She passed the vial to Cahethal who removed the tiny stopper and rose to stand over him. Crowley was aware of Cherubiel to his right, beginning to mutter an incantation as he tipped his head back and opened his eyes wide, feeling the grip of Miniel’s hands in his tighten slightly as she supported him.

He saw Cahethal’s hand with the small bottle in it approach his eyeline, and felt the cool touch of water once, and then again, wincing uncontrollably as the tears fell into each eye and overflowed, streaming down his face. The burning began almost immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have shared thoughts on the whole idea of Crowley keeping a box of things that remind him of his relationship with Aziraphale with my dear friend [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) to whom I owe a debt of gratitude.
> 
> The backstory relating to the Chaucer manuscript that Crowley owns was begun by LibbyFay in her story [Sloth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19832464) and then continued by me in my story [I have an aungel that which loveth me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21476971)
> 
> The story about how Crowley was given the rose he finds in the volume of sonnets is in LibbyFay’s work A flower for Nanny and their version of the whole ‘discovery of Crowley’s box of mementos’ idea is given a different iteration in Watching over him It is a lovely read.


	14. The evidence you wanted — his tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets his memories back and loses what little cool he has. The angels learn more about the aftermath of the failed apocalypse. Crowley takes a trip and meets more rebel angels. Gabriel prepares himself for a visit of his own, and is a massive hypocrite, surprise, surprise. Aziraphale gets a little comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to my lovely Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) for support, encouragement and nonsense late at night. Also to my supportive friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) for wonderful conversations on all sorts of subjects and their empathy and understanding.
> 
> Keep safe and happy everyone!
> 
> As ever kudos and comments are the life!

Demons cannot love, everyone knew that. Their ability to feel the depths of that emotion was stripped away from them along with their Grace when they fell, it was common knowledge, it was what all angels had been told after the Fall. Very few knew that it was simply not true. The truth was much, much worse than that. Most demons, in their eternal pain at the aching lack within them took the decision not to love. God’s love having been denied to them for the choices they had made, they filled the cavern gaping deep inside them where that supreme warmth had once resided, with hate, and how could they choose that, had they not been able to feel and know its opposite?

Crowley, the demon with imagination, asker of questions, champion of free choice, had always chosen to love, despite what it cost him in terms of pain and suffering. And where he loved, he loved completely, knowing no other way of being.

He felt the burning in his eyes as the tears of Aziraphale swam around them, closing them tight when the feeling rose as if it would consume him, tensing again as it faded into something piercing, sweet, a pain so different from the previous sting that it took his breath away.

***

The angels around Crowley, having wiped his wet face, watched him as his brow creased, closed eyes wincing, they stared as the lines smoothed out and his brow lifted, only to set again in an expression of anguish so heartrending that their breath was halted. Together they waited, hearts swelling, hands raised, bodies under tension. Crowley’s face stilled and froze like stone, two tears of his own trembling out from where fanned lashes lay, coming to rest on his cheek, unmoving.

“ _Cher_ ,” whispered Miniel, “ _we need his tears, for evidence, gather them up, darling, quick!_ ”

Cherubiel cast their eyes about looking for a suitable receptacle, then, having an idea, they ran from the room, returning a few moments later with a flower in their hand. They took the bloom, an Earth Angel rose, in their fingers and gently eased first one tear, then the next, from Crowley’s cheeks onto its petals, where they shone like new found pearls reflecting the dainty pale pink blush of the flower beneath. Cherubiel cast an enchantment on the rose to keep the drops intact and with a miracle, sent it to safety in their chambers Above.

***

Crowley, immersed in feelings, had frozen time, not without, but within himself. His corporation ceased all movement as he retreated into his true form to evaluate the emotions that were washing through and over him.

It was not a tsunami, there was no crashing percussion of immediacy. The return of six thousand years of memories and his understanding of the overwhelming love that came with them was more like a tidal bore sweeping up the deeps of a riverbed, a fearsome, inexorable racing knife-edged ripple of accumulated knowledge that flowed into him, pushing steady through the channels of his memory and spreading, fanning into his mind, bringing feelings that threatened to engulf him in their intensity. He opened up his heart to them and they pulled him unresisting into their undertow, pliant, willing, as they filled his being.

There were images, sensations, it was there, all of it, in its infinite incarnation. The start of it, the growth of it, affection, affinity, love, and at the centre of it all, like a star reborn, a figure, all in white.

_Aziraphale._

_***_

_Oh! I remember…_

_There you are, angel._

_Come back to me, come home._

_I remember…_

_A cold expanse of concrete, a child, a flaming sword, a moment of stasis that I made for you._

_For you…_

_Your eyes are closed as you release your wings, and you are beautiful, a glowing vision of righteous faith and understanding. Your chin drops and those guardian eyes, so blue, are gazing out, resolute._

_Your glance hits me for an instant and there is a smile and so much love there, for humanity and the potential for a future…_

_We take a hand in each of ours to give strength to that beautiful boy, that strong, brave child…._

_You raise your sword, and I have never loved you more._

_We stand resolute, and by your side, I feel no fear and can face anything…_

_Knowing that we are together, here, at the end, where it matters most._

***

Crowley gave a shudder and a huge exhalation of breath and opened his eyes, looking up at the three angels standing around him. He wiped his eyes and smiled, his mouth trembling.

“I remember, I remember everything.”

He didn’t actually, there were some things that he had known just prior to gaining back the body of his recollections that had temporarily slipped his mind. His main focus, as he accessed that which had been removed from him, was on his actions taken at the failed Apocalypse and the images of his angel there, at the airbase, the first memory that had returned to him.

The angels looked at each other and then they were touching him, Cahethal placed a warm hand on his shoulder, Cherubiel patted his arm and Miniel ducked in and gave him a swift hug, squeaking in her delight.

“Crowley, darling, how _marvellous_!”

Cherubiel brought a glass of water into being and Crowley accepted it, drinking slowly, his face contemplative. As he sat and sipped at the water, his memories started making themselves known to him, and his expression darkened.

“They came for us, we stopped the war and they came for us,” his voice was hoarse, hesitant at first and then his speech began to flow, “they came for him and took him and they wanted him to die.”

He sat back and looked at the three angels, who were watching him, shock written across their faces at his words. Crowley, overtaken with fresh understanding and the horror that came in its wake, continued talking, his voice growing more strident as enhanced comprehension coalesced within his mind and his temper started to fail him.

“You, angels. Have you any idea how unhappy they made him? Have you?”

“They? W - what?” said Miniel, her face falling from its previous expression of delight.

Crowley was on his feet, making an expansive gesture with his arm, face working with emotion.

“He’s the best… person, I know, hnng, Satan knows, I’m no fucking expert, but maybe the best angel of all.”

He paced, circled and turned to face the startled group of angels as they struggled to deal with his sudden change of mood.

“They left him down here on his own for _six thousand years_. He did his best, you know, with what they served up to him and called his _duty_. He loved this place and the people here and the food and music and writing and all the human things. Do you know what he got for it? Do you?”

There was something terrible in the vehemence of his speech and the angels all felt somehow guilty as they listened to his words, leaning away from him as he paced the room, slopping water from his glass before he placed it on the floor, kicking it to spill and roll as he walked away from it.

“Nothing, that’s what he got, nothing but derision and contempt. I used to see him after his appraisals and it was like he was smaller, somehow, crushed. And he used to smile and make the best of it because he was _stupidly, stupidly loyal_ , always, but I could see how fucking sad it made him.”

Miniel looked at Cherubiel with sadness, they knew that Aziraphale had been on his own. It hadn’t occurred to them that he might be unhappy about it

“And I couldn’t help,” continued the demon, still pacing, “because I wanted to, oh yes, I wanted just to be with him and tell him it was alright because I cared, but I couldn’t even do that because he always felt so sodding _guilty_ about accepting anything, anything at all from me.”

There was a silence as the angels absorbed this and Crowley started to speak again, his voice filled with grief and anger.

“He did all this, I don’t know, good stuff, he helped people, he cared, and then he had Gabriel reprimanding him for frivolous miracles when all he’d done was go to someone who was in pain or dying. That purple arsehole telling this beautiful person that he shouldn’t be doing that, to see the bigger picture, to stop caring so fucking much and work more effectively or some other corporate _bullshit_. And it broke his fucking heart, I had to watch it, and it was so _fucking_ _unfair_.”

There was a pause, and Crowley seemed to calm down a little after his outburst. He continued in a tone of voice that was less like shouting but still as forceful. The angels watched him, none of them daring to say anything in the face of his ire. Miniel reminded herself that for all his kindness and good humour, this was a demon who had brought about the fall of man and tempted kings and princes, in his time. There was something of that about him now as he raged in defence of the angel that he loved.

Crowley turned and faced them again, his face a plea for them to understand, and continued speaking, his lambent eyes glowing through the grainy air between them in this barren facsimile of a dwelling place.

“It was me persuaded him to work with me to prevent the end of the world, and I don’t believe he had any regrets, at the end. He seemed sure, that last day, when we were there, with the boy, that brilliant, clever boy, and his brave friends and book girl and her man and, oh yes, Shadwell and orange cape woman. Bloody, fucking _clever, brave, wonderful_ human people and my courageous, resourceful angel. They saved the world and we stopped the war. And he did something for me, that he should never have had to do, and that was bloody brave of him as well, but that’s by the by. What thanks do you think he got, huh?”

Crowley’s eyes were blazing in his face and there was a palpable heat coming off his corporation in waves and he was shouting again.

“We really don’t know, my dear fellow,” said Cherubiel, raising a hand in supplication at Crowley’s anger, “we were never told anything at all about it, I am afraid.”

“When they got him up there,” Crowley’s voice trembled with his passion, “they told him… told him to walk into Hellfire, there was no, fuh - _fucking_ trial and when he tried to reason with them, do you know what that utter bastard Gabriel said to him, to the kindest person I have ever known? Hhmm?”

“Crowley, darling…”

“Shut your stupid mouth and die, already, that’s what that utter fuckwit told him to do. And they expected him to do just that, walk into the flames and be burnt to death, be obedient to them right to the end. But he survived it, because we, him and me, we’re on our own ssside now.”

The final words came out as a hiss.

“Oh, darling, you really do love him, don’t you? I am so sorry,” said Miniel, her lip wobbling and her eyes huge, “we were only told to stand down, we didn’t know about any of this. We had no idea he was so unhappy before that. Oh poor Aziraphale, poor sweetheart.”

“Thought he was happy here, loved it, he always said so,” said Cherubiel, coming to stand by Miniel and placing a comforting arm around her shoulders, “we were told not to come and see him here, that it was forbidden to interfere with his work on Earth.”

“Yeah, well, he did love it here, he loved it very much but he could have done with some support, rather than what he got, maybe you should have thought more about that then, shouldn’t you?” sneered Crowley.

“But you people never think for yourselves, do you? All too busy toeing the corporate line, that’s how it goes, isn’t it? You don’t bother thinking and forming opinions, do you?”

Miniel and Cherubiel looked at their shoes, feeling chastened. Crowley laughed softly at their expressions. It wasn’t the most pleasant of sounds..

“Having said that, maybe he was better off away from all of that, maybe that’s why he’s as bloody lovely as he is. But in the meantime, what’s been going on up there? How have you all let that wanker and his sidekicks turn what should be a place of love into somewhere worse than Hell. At least down there, you know where you stand, it’s nothing worse than what it was always meant to be.”

Suddenly Crowley stood up straighter, as if he had received an electric shock. His mind had caught up with itself, finally, and fitted together his memories of Aziraphale, his Aziraphale and everything people had been telling him for days. That angel, the one in prison now, whose wings might be removed, who had spent months in some hideous void as punishment, that was _his Aziraphale_. He looked around him wildly, gesticulating, one hand in his hair, the other flailing around his head as he spoke. He seemed suddenly as if he was falling apart, his limbs uncoordinated, face a wreck.

“Shit! Shit shit shit shit shit. Oh bloody shitting fuck! They’ve got him again, haven’t they? Ah, fneurgh, shit, fuck, bollocks, you told me, didn’t you, before, that they’ve been torturing him. They said they would leave us alone but they haven’t have they? First that pernicious fly came and did this to me and then they came for him. I remember. I remember now, I thought they might have killed him, but he’s okay, you said he was okay, didn’t you?”

All this was rattled out in one long, tortured sentence while he gestured to the angels, who were standing, glassy eyed, by the sofa, staring at him.

“ _Well, didn’t you?Just tell me!_ ” he yelled.

“He’s coping, Crowley, just very sad. I don’t want to make things worse here,” said Cherubiel, “but I think you ought to know. He knows you lost your memories, Gabriel told him that it was your choice so to do.”

Crowley ceased his gyrating and became entirely still. His voice was a low growl.

“You _what_? You’re telling me that all this time he’s thought, that… that I wanted to forget him, is that right?”

“Try to stay calm, dear fellow.”

“Calm? _Calm_? This is no time for being fucking _calm_. I want to kill that _bastard_ , that sanctimonious, holier than thou utter knobstick of a son of a _bitch_. And I do fucking mean that, before you fucking start.”

He spun round on one foot and Miniel thought he was about to fall, but, remarkably, with a shimmy of those improbable hips, he righted himself and stood, glowering meaningfully at the assembled company.

“Right…right. We have to do something, right now, because, you know what this means, yes? They’re working together on this, Gabriel and Beelzebub, they’re doing it again.”

“Crowley…” began Cherubiel.

“ _NO!_ “

Crowley walked up to the senior angel and spoke directly into his face, his voice low and dangerous.

“ _No_ ,” he repeated, his voice intense, “you don’t get to tell me what to do, not any more. I’ve had enough, I’m going up there myself, gonna find him and bring him back here to where he belongs. Why are you all standing there, you useless fucking idiots? We have to go and get him before they cause any more damage. I saw him after what happened and he thought I didn’t notice, but every time they do these things, it just damages him more. He needs to come home. I’ll go up there and burn the whole _fucking_ place down if I have to.”

He was striding towards the door, Hellfire visible as a corona around each hand, flaring and sputtering in the twilight gloom of his living room, when Cahethal hurried to him with a few long strides and wrapped a hand around his slender shoulder. The senior angel had been quiet through everything, watching all of Crowley’s responses to his situation, sympathetic expressions flitting across his expressive face as he witnessed the distress of his sibling.

“We must needs be circumspect, dear brother. Now is not the time to be so hot-headed.”

“ _Let me go_ , what would you know about it anyway?” said Crowley, pulling himself away from the angel’s gentle grasp.

“Get out of my way before you get burned!”

“Think, brother, just for one moment. I am sorry for your pain, but if you venture there, a demon filled with rage, you will give them the excuse that they need.”

Crowley turned and looked back at Cahethal, he trembled, the fire around him burning with a quiet rushing noise.

“ _What d’you mean_?”

“Aziraphale is held in the military compound, guarded by soldier angels loyal to the administration. They will kill you without a thought, and then, who knows what they will put Aziraphale through. Not only that, but if I am any judge, Michael will use your intervention as an excuse to commence hostilities, and Hell will answer that call.”

Crowley, came to a halt and closed his eyes, shaking his hands to send the Hellfire away.

“I’m listening.”

“Don’t you see,”continued Cahathel, “if you do this, you will only succeed in restarting the war between two sides that you were so successful at averting? Besides, you must stay alive, for Aziraphale, he needs you now.”

Cahethal’s expression was compassionate, and there was something about him that produced an almost instinctive reaction in Crowley to listen, rather than turn away. He was vibrating with anxiety but when Cahethal laid a soothing hand on his shoulder once more, he stilled somewhat. He bent over, braced his hands on his legs and hunched his shoulders by his ears as he tried to gain control over his grief and anger. Finally, on shaking legs, he walked to the sofa and took his place there next to Miniel who lowered herself slowly to sit by him looking at him with sympathy in her face.

Cherubiel nodded at Cahethal’s speech, sagely.

“Crowley,” he said, “You should know that most of us up there are grateful to you both for what you did. Nobody really wanted the war, no-one that I know of, anyway. But taking on the might of Heaven all by yourself will only end in certain death for you, however righteous your cause.”

Crowley looked up at Cherubiel in silence. An angel calling a demon’s cause righteous, he never thought he would live to see that. Nothing about the current situation made sense though, all the old certainties of his previous life on Earth appeared to be falling away.

“Fine,” he gasped, at last, “okay, I get it, maybe you’re right, maybe there is some truth in that. I don’t want to leave him on his own, I never did. But I want to do _something_. I can’t just sit here and do nothing while they put him through some bollocks of a show trial.”

“I don’t know what you all think,” ventured Miniel, laying a tentative hand on Crowley’s knee, “but I vote that we do take Crowley up there.”

There was a noise of protest from Cherubiel but she held up her hand and continued.

“No, hear me out, darling. What happened to Aziraphale, nobody knows about it because they did it in secret, yes? I think people need to know, starting with our friends in SOCK…”

There was a snort from Crowley at this that sounded almost like a stifled laugh. Miniel rolled her eyes.

“Don’t mock, darling, it’s rude. A group of us have been meeting to try and help Aziraphale, since we found out about his arrest. It’s because of them that we are here now. Anyway, if you come with us, you can explain everything that you’ve told us, and then we can decide together what it is best to do.”

“He’ll have to be in disguise, he can’t just walk in there, it’s far too dangerous.” said Cherubiel, looking Crowley up and down.

“Of course he’ll be in disguise,” said Miniel, gleefully. She grabbed the standing figure of Cahethal and pulled him to sit down next to the demon.

“Look at them, they are like two beans in a tin, or whatever the saying is, all Crowley needs to do is make his hair longer and change out of those sinful trousers into something more like that,” she indicated Cahethal’s robe, “and they’ll pass as two seraphs visiting the Archive. Nobody will look twice darling. Are you up for it, Crowley?”

Crowley managed a smile for Miniel and nodded.

“Could be fun, I suppose.”

The thought of entering Heaven in disguise went some way towards soothing his agitated feelings.

“Will I be able to…?” he started to ask, but Cherubiel interrupted him.

“No, if you are asking about seeing him, I don’t think it’s worth the risk. We have leave to visit for the purposes of worship, but that is purely for me and other cherubs, your presence would be noticed. If we are to do this, we should do it now, for time is running out. We’ll go, and when we see him, we will tell him that you remember, it won’t be long before he knows, I promise you that.”

Crowley acquiesced to the angels’ plan. It wasn’t what his soul was telling him that he needed, which was to run to Aziraphale just as he always had done, sweep him away from danger and bring him home to wine and treats and teasing, but that was clearly not possible. He was desperate but he wasn’t suicidal. Despite his anger, he retained enough of a level head to see the sense in what Cahethal had said. Aziraphale needed him. Together with these renegades, they would make a plan, and he would be damned all over again if he didn’t find some way of bucking the heavenly legal system and seeing to it that his angel was returned to him, and this time he didn’t ever intend to let him go, whatever happened. They would work out whatever they had between them, on their own terms, just as they always had.

“Right, okay, fine, that’ll have to do for now. I’ll just…”

Crowley concentrated and his hair began to grow, winding out from his head and slithering sinuously down his back, forming into gentle waves as it came, a river of bright carmine curls, rioting along his spine and spreading, slippery, shining, like a delta, across his shoulders. He pulled his hand up, with a gentle movement, and the black trousers, grey shirt and black jacket appeared to melt away, being replaced by a pale woollen garment that was identical to the one Cahethal wore. He stood next to the other angel, who was only a little taller than him.

“Like twins we are, apart from my eyes and the fact that I am the incarnation of evil,” said Crowley, smirking once more, “anybody here can do something about the eyes, then?”

“I can, my brother, for a little while at least,” said Cahethal, “once we are near, I can cast a glamour that will ensure that they look just like mine to anyone we may encounter.”

“Time to go then, better get a wiggle on.”

Crowley smiled strangely at his companions after saying this, and they moved together, leaving the flat and walking to the lift, garnering a very dirty look from one of Crowley’s neighbours as they passed her in the lobby. She was accustomed to his rudeness, now she wondered just exactly what he and his strangely dressed friends might all be doing, taking drugs or swinging or one of any number of depraved activities that she couldn’t help thinking about. She had an active imagination that typically had very little to work with, owing to the humdrum nature of her life. Crowley and his occasional caustic remarks and vacillating appearance over the years had previously given her food for thought for days, sometimes.

***

In the military compound, Aziraphale was laying out and straightening his kit for another dreary inspection that had been scheduled by Cerviel that morning when he felt a jolt of something in his chest. He placed his hand there, winded by the sudden shock of it and staggered back a little. He felt behind him for the canvas chair that he knew was by the wall, finding it with one shaking hand and taking a seat there, his other hand still flat against his sternum. Once the immediate impact had worn off, he felt something settle into him, a warmth and gentle fluttering, like that of a delicate thing in flight, a moth perhaps. He imagined something soft, with powder coated wings, perched within him, oscillating tenderly. With the feeling came a sense of comfort. He closed his eyes, forgetting his duty for a little moment, and permitted the feeling to seep into him. For the first time in months, he stopped vibrating with nervous misery, and allowed himself to relax into it. He had no idea what it was, but it helped him, and he let it give him a sense of peace, just for a few, precious moments.

***

Gabriel adjusted his mauve tie and stroked one hand over his perfect backswept hair. He looked sharp, definitely, his suit immaculate, skin smooth and eyes sparkling. He smiled at himself in the mirror and preened at the attractive picture his corporation made. Turning, he found his grey cashmere overcoat and shrugged it on, picking up a lavish bunch of twenty four long-stemmed dark red roses and sweeping it into the crook of his arm. He had no idea why the dying genital parts of Earth plant life were supposed to be romantic, but he had been advised that this type were particularly so, and he had gone with it. The colour, it was quite attractive, at least, although he wasn’t sure about the smell; Earthly things were just so odd. He paused once more, taking in the dashing figure that he cut and saluted himself with two fingers, winking in a self-satisfied way at his reflection before he opened the door to his office and headed towards the escalators.

He had set-up this meeting with Lord Beelzebub ostensibly to discuss the forthcoming trial and the implications of that for future plans relating to the final war. He was also hoping that he might open some sort of dialogue about a, now, what had he found out it was called? Ah yes, a date. If Aziraphale could consider having a connection with a demon, surely this fine specimen of an angel, handsome, powerful and with a winning personality could not fail to win the interest of the demon of his choice. Nothing could go wrong, he was sure of it.

***

Crowley sat with the other angels in the dingy room at the back of the Akashic Archives having just finished outlining what he knew to the other members of SOCK and Cahethal. Coming here had been surprisingly easy. Nobody had questioned his appearance as he walked along the passageways of Heaven at the side of the seraph, and they had not encountered any of the Archangels as they made their way to the level of the spheres where the huge Archive repository was situated. Crowley found he actively loathed returning to this place, with its echoing white absence of feeling, it made him uncomfortable all over and he knew he would be very glad to get back to Earth again once he was done. That was where he and his angel belonged, not up here, or down in the choking, filthy dens of Hell, but on the surface of the planet with the humans and their mesmerising, messy short and sacred lives.

There was a silence as the angels sitting round the table took in what he had just told them about Aziraphale’s trial. He had done his very best not to get angry, but he hadn’t been able to help himself towards the end, and some of the angels, most notably, Harahel and Anpiel, were quite pale. Anpiel had been almost speechless when he had been introduced to her. She had flushed bright red and would not look him in the eye. He could only assume that she was alarmed to meet a demon. Of course, this was very much not the case, as he learned later, she was just overcome at meeting him in the flesh after having spent many centuries fascinated by his life. She was rather overwhelmed, especially as, seeing him in his splendour, she realised exactly what he had once been, and was revising everything she had previously understood about him. It was clear to her, that Crowley, although damned in theory, still had enough grace about him to pass as what he was pretending to be for this little, necessary time. Perhaps everyone was going to have to reconsider what they believed about the differences between angels and demons. And not before time, in her view.

Pravuil took charge of the meeting after Crowley stopped speaking.

“Clearly, this is something that everyone should be told about, I don’t know if you all agree, but I, for one, do not wish to continue serving under an administration that is prepared to treat one of the Host in this manner.”

There was nodding around the table and Pravuil carried on.

“There is a feeling that is growing amongst all the choirs, as the preparations continue for Aziraphale’s trial, that people have had enough. If we were able to circulate this information, it might tip everyone over into making some sort of proper, organised protest. We can hold it at the hearing, that would generate the most publicity. The problem remains that we have no proof.”

Crowley growled at this “My word not good enough for you all, then?”

Pravuil looked at him coolly. “The time to exercise your sense of grievance about what you are is not now, my dear, we need to focus.”

He grinned at her, appreciating her directness and she nodded at him, returning his smile with one of her own before continuing.

“Of course we sitting here believe you, but we can’t have you addressing every angel in Heaven, that would only serve to get you killed. No, what we need is some proof to offer our brethren, and I don’t believe you have anything of that sort do you?”

Crowley was about to answer when a soft voice piped up from his left. Harahel raised his hand and started to speak, two spots of colour sitting on his round cheeks displaying his slight discomfort at calling the attention of the whole room to himself.

“You may not, Cr - Crowley, but I do.”

“Harahel, what do you have for us?” Pravuil turned her focus on the smaller angel and he quailed slightly under her sharp scrutiny.

“Well…” he looked uncomfortable, the redness on his cheeks extending to cover most of his face, “I may have some, um, images, of when Aziraphale and Crowley were kidnapped from the Jameses Park place. I, erm, it was when I was, um, after I was asked about Aziraphale and what he had been doing. I may have ah, extracted some of the evidence, to protect him. While I was there, I took them, just in case they were useful…”

“Ooh, Harahel, well done you!” said Miniel, approvingly.

Harahel, looked down at the table, clearly embarrassed at the praise directed at him, then reached in and produced a slim envelope from a capacious pocket in his robe. Raduerial was looking at him, wide eyed.

“You didn’t tell me about this, dove,” he said, reproach clear in his voice.

“I am sorry dearest, I do not like keeping things from you, but I didn’t want you to know in case they came for me. Michael was very angry, I felt I was living on borrowed time. The less you knew, the better you were protected, I thought. I am truly sorry.” His face was a picture of distress.

Raduerial took his hand, across the table and smiled, his dark eyes kind and gentle.

“I understand, I see, I would have done the same for you, my dear.

There was a little throat clearing from the other angels and Pravuil took the envelope from the hand of the smaller angel that wasn’t holding that of his longtime companion. It seemed everything was changing in Heaven now. Crowley could only look on, his surprise at this open display of affection between celestial creatures clear on his face.

Pravuil unsealed the envelope and took out the pictures. There were four of them, all showing the abduction in the park, there was one that showed Crowley looking away while Aziraphale was seized by six people who looked like park attendants. The other three focussed on Aziraphale, showing his mouth being taped up, head covered by a bag and then his progress towards and the moment when he was bundled into an unmarked vehicle, its windows blocked with chipboard. The identity of the angels involved was undeniable, the faces of both Sandalphon and Uriel clearly visible in the images.

“O-kay,” said Pravuil, “we have evidence, now, what are we going to do with it?”

“I’ll design fliers,” said Jophiel, “we can work together on the text, Prav, can’t we?” Pravuil smiled and nodded.

“I’ll get them printed up,” offered Raduerial, hand still linked with that of Harahel, who smiled up at him, his previous hesitant demeanour changed to one of open affection for his partner.

“I’ll see that the image is placed on Hostweb, once you have scanned it for the leaflets,” said Cahethal, “I have friends who can do that for me, in the Tech division.”

“I will happily distribute the fliers on my rounds,” piped up Anpiel, “if you let me know when they are ready. No-one will notice, they are all used to seeing me about.”

“I will go and see Aziraphale, said Cherubiel, “he needs to know what’s happening and that Crowley has his memory back. That should motivate him to choose his counsel. I will report back what he says as soon as I can.”

“Right, that’s settled then. Act as quickly as you can now, we have just two days until the trial. Let me know when everything is ready to go and we can finalise arrangements. Until we meet again, talk to every angel you know that you feel you can trust, it’s time to mobilise everyone!”

Pravuil turned to Crowley and looked at him with all her steady focus.

“Thank you, Crowley, for everything you have told us. You should make haste and return to Earth. However much you may wish to help, you cannot stay here. Try not to worry, we will come and fetch you on the day of the trial,” she took his hand, gently, “we are going to do everything we can to help Aziraphale, you have friends here, both of you.”

As they were all leaving the little room, Crowley stopped in front of Cherubiel and leaned against the wall, affecting a casual stance.

“When you see him,” Crowley’s eyes, although they had been superficially altered, were still demonic to the other’s view and the dark honey of them was intense as they met the halcyon blue of the other’s, “tell him... tell him that I never wanted to forget him, I never would. He’s always been, well, everything to me.”

“I will make sure he knows, Crowley, be assured of it. Go well, now... brother.”

“Mmhhm, yeah, thank you.” was the subdued response.

Cahethal escorted Crowley to the escalator where he removed the enchantment on his eyes.

“I shall see you soon, my dear Crowley, try not to worry.”

***

Crowley returned to his usual mode of dress as soon as he was back in the grimy London street outside the skyscraper that held the Celestial and Infernal office portal. He kept the hair, deciding that he couldn’t be doing with the fuss of making it short again. He took a bus back to his flat, resigned to the prospect of an uncomfortable couple of days before he came back up for the trial. He could hardly believe that he was keen to return to the sterile environment of Heaven, but he knew he would not be truly comfortable until he had seen Aziraphale once more.

***

The Archangel Gabriel staggered back into his office and thought about trying to sit, realising as he did so that this really wasn’t the best idea. He was still clutching the forlorn headless stems of the bunch of roses he had been carrying earlier. The flower heads had been removed with devastating accuracy by a single blow from a wickedly sharp demonic scimitar, wielded by one Prince of Hell.

Beelzebub had not taken at all kindly to his suggestion of meeting for drinks. His alternative proposal of dinner had not met with any greater success. He had then made the fatal error of thinking that a more direct approach to seduction might be what a senior demon would respond to most favourably. The resulting scream of rage had been heard in all of the nine circles. He still had no sensation whatever in his jaw.

He thought for a moment and miracled himself up an inflatable rubber ring, placed it on his office chair, and sank gingerly down on to it, wincing as he went. There must have been infernal steel in the toecaps of their shoes, he mused to himself. Certainly, he had done his best to heal the damage, but had been able to make no impression on the diabolical throbbing he was experiencing very insistently in a certain area. He threw the stalks in the bin, with a grimace at the movement.

He was sure that the swelling would go down, eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you are enjoying this. I have nearly finished writing it and am proud of myself for at least sticking with it through the trials of lockdown and isolation. Good wishes and thanks to every person who is still reading. May you be happy and have fun!


	15. You don’t want me to use force, do you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pravuil and Jophiel have some visitors. We meet the leader of an oddly named clandestine organisation (more angel OCs, in other words!). Plans for the protest are finalised and angels go into action. Crowley makes yet another of his characteristically rash decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go, as ever to my wonderful beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) and to my long-suffering and entirely wonderful friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) for their tolerance and support.
> 
> As ever, kudos and comments keep me sane. It's cold and raining here in Scotland so I could do with some warmth.

Pravuil and Jophiel were sitting in one of the small back offices of the Archives, discussing the possible wording for the fliers that they were about to issue. They would be calling for their fellow angels to protest, particularly against the treatment of Aziraphale and generally at the way in which the administration of the Archangels was running the governance of Heaven. Although they were entirely committed to the cause, it was only now that the seriousness of what they were doing had caught up with them. Tapping into the obvious discontent of the Host had seemed like one thing when it was merely gossip in the break room, asking them to openly defy the Angelic Council was entirely another. In short, they were stumped as to what to say in their appeal, having never considered any kind of political action before.

Pravuil was set and determined to do something though. For her, line had most definitely been crossedwhen the Archangels had attempted to execute one of the Host without any form of trial and in secret. The news of Michael’s appearance in Hell with a never-ending flagon of Holy Water plus that of a demon in Heaven bearing Hellfire had shocked everyone in the room when Crowley had described it to them. As far as Pravuil was concerned, if the current administration was prepared to do that, no angel was safe. It was no longer good enough for everyone to merely bitch about the situation with their friends and do nothing. It was definitely time for action of some sort. The problem was deciding what sort was likely to be most effective. The Archangels were unlikely to accept any dissent against their regime without some sort of struggle. The question was, how far could their little group afford to go? Nobody wished to start another civil war, the risks were too great. Some sort of middle way would have to be found. Perhaps if enough support could be found amongst the Host for a protest, it would pave the way for some sort of dialogue to be opened up about making changes. Surely Gabriel and Michael would listen if enough voices were raised asking for change, wouldn’t they?

“Okay, Prav, dear,” said Jophiel , “we’ve got a good description of what has happened, but how do we suggest that they take action. Come to think of it, was kind of action do we actually want them to take? Polite memos to Gabriel’s office? Strongly worded letters in the Celestial Observer? Outraged posts on Wingbook? I have no idea what we are doing here. We are angels, we aren’t meant to disobey. What…?”

Jophiel stared at her partner as the expression on her face changed from her usual clear concentration on the subject at hand to one of distraction. Pravuil had just opened her mouth to speak, when she held up her hand, finger raised, and looked at the door. There was that shelf, still not repaired, buzzing again.

“Who’s there?” she said. Once again, the square figure of Nanael appeared in the doorway. This time he wasn’t dressed in his white blue and gold fatigues but in black combat trousers, heavy boots and a red polo shirt. He was accompanied by another, smaller angel, similarly dressed, wearing a strange woollen helmet leaving only their eyes visible.

“ ‘Ello,” ventured Nanael, “I was ‘oping to see you about, uh, whatever it is you are doing to ‘elp Azir’phale, cos we wanna to join in, be a part of it, yeah?”

The slighter figure nudged the bulky Principality with his elbow. He appeared to be buzzing with energy, shifting from foot to foot, hands clasping and unclasping in front of his slender frame. He removed his balaclava with a theatrical wave of his hand, revealing a startling shock of pink hair and rose coloured eyes in a fine, thin face with a straight nose, rosy lips and pointed chin.

“Aren't you going to introduce me, then? Okay, I’ll do it meself, I am Ordinary Angel Lamechiel, and I am here,” he pulled himself up to his full height and his enthusiastic, lilting voice became louder, “to speak with you as representative of the Ordinary Angel Front. We are an anarcho-syndicalist organisation, our aim is to cast off the chains of our fascist overlords. I have come here to offer you our support with whatever direct action you wish to take in order to rid ourselves of the existing power structures and free that symbol of angel resistance to oppression, the Principality Aziraphale!”

The last phrase was uttered with a flourish and Lamechiel stood there, as if waiting for applause. Jophiel frowned and stared at the small angel, who was bouncing up and down with his enthusiasm for some sort of confrontation with four of the most powerful beings in creation. She thought he must be out of his mind. He kept on grinning and nodding at her whilst waiting for a response. When neither Pravuil nor Jophiel said anything, the smaller angel sagged a little. There was a silence.

“OAF?” ventured Jophiel, smiling slightly.

“Yeah, well,” said Lamechiel, looking reproachful at her amused tone, “we couldn’t agree on anything else, it’ll do for now, and anyway, that’s not important. What is important, is the fact that the hour of the revolution is here, see. The oppression of the masses has gone on for too long. It its time for all good angels to come to the aid of our movement!”

Pravuil had been watching the excitable angel as he gave his speech, now she spoke, her voice low and kind.

“And how, exactly, do you intend to achieve these ends?”

“We must work in solidarity to overthrow the present regime. Then we shall replace it with an executive that derives its power from a mandate from the ordinary working angel! Angels will rise up! Man the barricades! Down with the Archangels! We shall overcome!”

“You are advocating revolution then, Lamechiel?” said Jophiel

“Yes, I have been studying the Earth Internet, see. The humans have done this sort of thing before, and succeeded in sweeping away the trappings of old orders to bring in a new, fairer society for everyone.”

“Hmm,” responded Pravuil, “Did you look into how that worked out for them, little one? The Reign of Terror in France, the Purges in Russia, the Great Leap Forward in China? Millions slaughtered in the aftermath of their attempts to bring about change. These things never end well, you know, even when the intentions are pure, well, as pure as it ever is with humans. How old are you, Lamechiel?”

“I don’t see how that is relevant,” he replied, huffily, “but if you must know, I was created after the Earth, to work as a clerk in the administration.”

“Ah,” said Jophiel, catching on, “so you weren't around during the Great War then, were you, dear?”

“Oh. Right, that old chestnut, it’s all you older angels ever go on about, the War this, the War that. It won’t be like that this time.”

“Lamechiel,” said Pravuil, patiently, “the last time there was a rebellion in Heaven, it caused a hideous civil war. Angels Fell, their Grace and their wings were burned away. There was endless pain. Do not underestimate how utterly horrible it was for each and every one of us. We cannot take the risk of it happening again. Any sign of disobedience in the Host and Michael will not hesitate to mobilise the army. There must be another way.”

She wanted to be kind, in the face of what she viewed as his hopeless naivety. He was young but his heart appeared to be in the right place.

“Oh, right, so you know better then, what are _you_ planning to do?” The little angel folded his arms and looked stubborn, raising his chin in the air.

“We thought a protest, at the trial,” said Jophiel.

“Do you know what happened to the last angels to protest,” said Lamechiel, hotly, “they were our comrades, they wanted to stop the war, argued for appeasement with the Other Side. They were arrested by Sandalphon’s goons. They haven’t been seen since. Protesting isn’t enough, not any more.”

“We cannot condone encouraging angel to fight angel in a civil war,” Pravuil looked at Lamechiel steadily, “it is too risky. How much support do you have, anyway?”

“There’s quite a few of us,” said Lamechiel, enthusiastically, “mostly angels like me, and plenty more who agree with what we have been saying, discontent has been growing for ages, you must have been aware of how things are with the Host these days. Nanael here has been talking to his comrades in the army and he says a lot of the soldiers don’t like the way things have been going either, they might join us rather than fight their brethren.”

“ ’S right,” said Nanael, “depends what ‘appens at the trial, but a lot of the Princ’palities and the ordin’ry squaddies aren’t that ‘appy about what ‘Zir’phale is bein’ accused of. There’s been mutterin’s.”

“So, we won’t support out and out rebellion, and you don’t advocate a simple protest. What do you think we could do otherwise, Lamechiel?” said Jophiel, “we would be interested to hear your ideas.”

Lamechiel stilled and thought for a moment, his discontented expression softening to one of introspection. Then his face cleared and the smile broke out again.

“Alright, then, what about a general strike? The humans have done that before. The idea is that everyone stops working for one day to show their solidarity with the cause. It can be combined with protests too, at the trial, if you want.”

Lamechiel was grinning at the idea, his eyes shining and face alight with fervour.

“It gives every angel the chance to be involved, without violence, and if we get enough of our siblings to do this, it will send a clear message to the Angelic Council.”

“What, everyone stops work?” said Pravuil, “won’t that cause problems?”

“No,” said Lamechiel, hunkering down and settling as he prepared to explain what he meant, with a hopeful look on his keen little face, his hands moving and gesturing as he spoke, “what you do is, you identify your key workers, see, like some of the seraphim and cherubim, and ask them to keep going, on the understanding that everyone supports them, just to keep the lights on and stop everything from actually, well, you know, stopping. Then you sort out the people whose work has the most impact and make sure that they do stop, like the Tech people and soul processing, the kitchens, typing pool, you know. Get them on board to make the most impact. It means that we don’t actually cause damage to creation, just enough to piss everyone not involved off, really, that’s how you make your point.”

“Ah, I see,” said Pravuil, a smile appearing on her face, “just enough to annoy the Council and get our message across. I like your thinking, Lamechiel”

“Yes,” enthused Lamechiel, standing to bounce from one foot to the other with his excitement, “and the more people you get involved, the less the high ups can do about it. They can’t put everyone in the bloody Void.”

“We need to discuss this with the other members of our Group, Lamechiel. If you could come back to speak with us, that would be wonderful. We are meeting here later tonight. You should be here too, Nanael, any help we can get from your fellow soldiers would be wonderful, even if it is tacit support.”

Nanael looked a bit confused at this but, getting the general gist, he nodded his head, enthusiastically.

“O-kay,” said Lamechiel, “I must speak with Baruchiel and the others, I will return later and talk to your group, if you want. We must get on with it, though, no time to waste. You should have been planning this months ago, by rights.”

“We will review the wording for the fliers and get them out as soon as we can. Once it’s done, I’ll send the text to Eiael in Tech and they can put it on HostWeb, Wingbook and Flutter for me,” Pravuil smiled, a little wickedness becoming apparent in her expression, “Gabriel and Michael won’t know what’s hit them.”

“So we’re really doing this are we?” said Jophiel, “It’s exhilarating and frightening all at the same time. I can’t believe we’ve come to this, Prav.”

“Yes, we are, we have to. In all conscience, I don’t believe we have a choice any more,” said Pravuil, “however frightening it seems, we can’t just sit back and let things carry on the way they have been. Aziraphale’s trial is the ideal time to take a stand. Whatever happens, we have to try to make things better, and that won’t happen if we are faint of heart now. Our unity will be our strength.”

“Too right,” beamed Lamechiel, “Everybody Out!”

He bounced out of the room, followed by Nanael. As they walked down the corridor, Lamechiel’s beautiful tenor could be heard raised in song:

_All the little angels, rise up, rise, up!_

_All the little angels rise up high!_

_How do they rise up, rise up, rise up?_

_How do they rise up, rise up, high?_

***

During the build up to the planned Apocalypse, after around six thousand years of working as an angel, for the ultimate good, or so he was led to believe, Lamechiel found himself becoming increasingly disillusioned with the angels who were set above him. Their insistence on the destruction of the Earth and all the humans on it, followed by a fight to what might well be annihilation with their opposite numbers in Hell seemed to him to be acts of pure folly.

Lamechiel worked in the soul processing area of Heaven and regarded himself as very much a people person. Early on in his job, when he was a young angel, he had started taking the time to speak with the incoming souls, asking questions of them and listening to their stories with wonder, impressed at how resilient and varied these beings were. He came to loathe the idea that they and the pretty planet they lived on were to be destroyed for the sake of some ancient ‘Plan’, the point of which he could not see.

Once these ideas started running through his mind and would not be dislodged, he found that there were other angels who thought similarly, and he began to seek them out during his breaks. The disaffected gravitated towards each other and it was not long before they had formed a loose alliance, which became tighter over time, aggregating into a proper association of angels with a formalised constitution and rules. There were quite a lot of them now in OAF, and he knew there were more who shared their feelings of disaffection, even if they were too afraid of reprisals to be more open about their feelings. When he had heard from Nanael what was going on with Aziraphale, he had realised that, finally, this was the time to act. Currently, Lamechiel had a very strong feeling that even those who were timid about getting involved with anything radical sympathised with the sufferings of the Principality, who had come to represent the spirit of opposition to the current regime in so many angels’ minds.

The unspoken thought that was closest to Lamechiel’s heart, something he had not yet discussed with the senior angels, was his belief that the most pressing issue of the current struggle should be the right of individual angels to love freely. The aim that he held most dear was that angels should have the freedom to choose to love whomsoever they pleased, openly and without prejudice, that was the thing that he was most dedicated to fighting for. He intended to raise this subject with the group he had been asked to speak with when he returned later that day for their briefing.

Lamechiel had long been inspired by actions of protest undertaken against oppression by people on Earth. He had met human souls who had died for their beliefs and spent time talking with them. He had also spent a lot of his free time searching the Earthly Internet for images and information about resistance movements of all kinds. As he walked away from the Archives with Nanael, he hoped that this endeavour would be a success and that he would not be leading his friends to their doom. He thought in particular of Baruchiel, his life partner and the being in all of Heaven closest to him. He went to find them and organise an impromptu meeting. The time was now. He hoped he would have the stomach for everything he might have to do.

***

The meeting of SOCK was convened in the usual back office of the Archives as soon as it was possible to gather everyone together. Pravuil had summarised the arguments of Lamechiel with regard to what form the action should take and they had created a draft of the leaflet that they intended to have dropped all over heaven in the next few hours, before the trial proceedings began.

“I have spoken with Aziraphale,” said Cherubiel, “ he has chosen his counsel. It is a human soul, someone he says understands both the life of angels and life on Earth. He is a poet, apparently, which I suppose is typical of Aziraphale, as we all know how much he loves human writings.”

There were various mutterings at this, some of the group clearly worried that a non-celestial being might not have a good enough grasp of Heavenly Law to do the job properly. Cherubiel held up a hand and spoke again, their deep voice calm and reassuring.

“He tells me this human has superior understanding and argues well. He has agreed to represent Aziraphale and is being advised by Ramiel and Remiel of our planned strategy right now, as we are meeting here. They regard him highly it seems. If it is what Aziraphale wishes, we cannot gainsay him.”

At that point, there was a noise outside the room and Lamechiel walked through the door, hand in hand with another angel. Nanael strode in directly behind them, two other figures following him into the room. They stood in the at-ease position behind Nanael and viewed proceedings with faces held carefully blank.

Lamechiel bowed to the assembled company and indicated his companion.

“Hello everyone, thank you for asking us to be here. This is Baruchiel, fellow member of the Ordinary Angel Front and my significant other.”

Baruchiel was dressed in the same fashion as their partner, their orange hair clashing horribly with their red shirt. The pink haired Lamechiel had his partner’s hand entwined with his own, his pale skin contrasting with the warm mahogany of his significant other’s. Baruchiel’s large brown eyes took in the array of cherubs and seraphs before them and the skin around them crinkled in a shy smile.

The two soldiers with Nanael were in their uniforms, having just come off duty. Their closely cropped heads made it difficult to ascertain hair colour but they appeared to both be brunettes like their comrade, and shared the other soldier’s heavy build.

“This is Hahasiah,” said Nanael, indicating the first soldier, “and Imamiah,” pointing at the second, “they’re jus’ two of me mates ‘oo aren’t ‘appy jus’ now at what’s goin’ on.”

Pravuil introduced everyone around the table. Those seated there nodded and smiled and there was a friendly murmur of greetings for the four newcomers. Anpiel gave one of her little waves when her name was mentioned. The members of SOCK looked expectantly at the faces in front of them.

“I’ll get cracking shall I?” said Lamechiel.

“Please do,” replied Pravuil, indicating the floor in front of the table and sitting back with a smile for the diminutive would-be revolutionary.

Lamechiel outlined his ideas to the little group of renegades who listened intently as he went through the steps he was advocating. There was a general agreement that this was a plan that might have a chance of success. Anpiel and Harahel exchanged looks, they were both very nervous. Raduerial took Harahel’s hand and gave it a squeeze when he saw the look on his beloved’s face. Lamechiel, reading over the text for the flier, noticed the movement and looked at Harahel approvingly, smiling his beaming smile.

“Oh yes, that’s another thing I wanted to discuss,” he said, looking at Pavuil, to ensure he had her full attention, “there’s something else I think you should put in the leaflet.”

“Go on then, Lamechiel, tell us what you think.”

“This protest, just looking at, Harahel, is it here, and his, um, friend?”

“Raduerial.” the Dominion filled in.

“Raduerial, right, thanks,” Lamechiel nodded at the black haired angel, “well, this is what we should be fighting for, right here,” he pointed at the joined hands of the two angels and his lilting voice became louder, “we angels have been prevented from showing our love for each other for too long.”

There were various dismayed noises around the table at this and the angels seated there looked at one another and then back at the pink-haired supplicant in front of them.

“No, wait, let me finish. What is the thing that Aziraphale is most famous for, hmm? I know he has gained notoriety just lately for not wanting to fight and the whole halting of the end of days thing, but before that, we all knew about his, ah, friendship with the demon Crowley, didn’t we?

There was nodding at this, particularly from Anpiel, and she interrupted Lamechiel’s flow to speak herself.

“Yes, dear, of course we do, and loads of people associate him now with the right to love freely.”

“So, why not put that on our publicity? I think it will boost our cause enormously. Nobody likes these strictures and everybody breaks them. If I am honest with you, I’m angry about what has been going on just lately, but this is the thing I most want to protest about. Having to scuttle around pretending that we don’t have relationships is demeaning, and I am tired of it, see? We are creatures of love, why is it forbidden for us to love each other? I don’t know about all of you but this is something I am willing to stand up and fight for!”

‘ _Crowley’_ , thought Miniel, ‘ _Crowley would love this one’_.

She stretched her arm out to her side and reached for Cherubiel, twining their fingers in hers and placing their joined hands on the table. Harahel, his cheeks reddening, looked at his partner and seeing his nod, put their linked hands on the table also, as did Pravuil and Jophiel. Behind Nanael, Hahasiah and Imamiah both blushed, looked at each other and moved closer together, taking one another’s hands and smiling, bashfully.

Anpiel looked round, and her expression clouded a little with melancholy, but she remembered her previous vow to Aziraphale, raised her face and spoke out.

“I…I may not have anyone to love, but I believe in it, so much, and maybe, perhaps, if I’m very lucky, one day I will and,” her lip was trembling now but she continued, “this will mean I can love them openly, That is what I would like, my dear ones,” she finished up.

Miniel patted her on the arm, murmuring something comforting in her low voice about her being loved by them all anyway.

Nanael nodded his head “Yeah, me an’ Nith’, yeah, that’s what we’d like too, I’m gonna tell ‘im, soon as ‘e’s back…”

“Right so,” said Lamechiel, raising his and Baruchiel’s linked arms, his thin face wreathed in smiles, “there we go then. Let’s put something in about our right to love and get these things out. We will be needing a base for operations. Is it okay if we make that here, Pravuil?”

“I suppose it has to be somewhere, and everyone knows where we are, so, yes, I guess so. It is big and easy to get lost in, lots of places to hide if it comes to it. The staff and I will defend it to the end, be assured of that.”

“I have a plan for that, Pravuil, don’t worry,” said Lamechiel, with a laugh, “time to spread the word. Talking of which, we need to be able to identify our allies, a password and perhaps something we can wear to pick people out if we need to.”

‘Flowers,” said Harahel, suddenly, “I read it in a book, fighters for justice, they wore flowers. The spring flowers are in bloom on Earth just now. We shall all wear them to symbolise our fight for freedom. I will bring some up and we can distribute them with the leaflets. Spring blossoms for lovers, that is appropriate I think?”

“And the code word?” asked Jophiel.

“How about Roses?” said Cherubiel, remembering the evidence of Crowley’s love, safe in his chambers.

“Oh _darling_ ,” said Miniel, squeezing his hand, “this is all so _exciting_. It beats flapping about and praying any day of the week.”

“Miniel, dear, you are incorrigible,” said Cherubiel, kissing her softly on the cheek.

“You two are just adorable,” said Lamechiel, starry eyed, “Ahem, roses it is then, for the password everyone. I will see you all early tomorrow before the trial, make sure you get those fliers out, air drop them if you have to. Good luck my comrades, tomorrow we shall see what we can do to make a new order for Heaven!”

“Optimistic little bugger, isn’t he?” said Pravuil, watching him leave with his partner’s hand clutched tight in his.

“He’s so young, you have to admire his spirit,” said Jophiel, “I just hope we’re doing the right thing, my love.”

***

On Earth, it was just another late afternoon. The light spilled gold for a moment along the wall of his flat as the pale spring sun disappeared behind the sharp shadows of London’s tallest buildings. Crowley was pacing around his living room, thinking, thinking, his energy high, anxiety about Aziraphale strumming through his human body. He felt as if his entire corporation was in tension, all muscles clenched in an exquisite torsion of distress. He had spent some time with the box of memories, turning the items over in his hands, calling to his mind the occasions that each one marked in his relationship with Aziraphale.

The angel's lace cravat that he had removed in the revolutionary Parisian creperie when he realised that he was still wearing it after swapping his clothes with the odious Jean-Claude. The oyster shell from Petronius’ restaurant where they had first eaten together. Entrance tokens from all the plays they had seen together in Greece: Sophocles, Aeschylus, Euripedes. The playbills and tickets for concerts, operas, and theatre performances they had attended all over the world. The feather, the beautiful feather he remembered lifting from the flower flecked sward of the Garden, keeping it safe by him for thousands of years as he travelled across the world, moving in an arc of temptations and other assignments, always swinging back like a compass needle to his true North, the angel who held his heart in his soft, beautiful hands.

It was intolerable, being left here to fret whilst Aziraphale remained effectively under arrest in some miserable barracks building in the upper spheres. He loathed this feeling of impotence, and even more, he mistrusted his current position of reliance on beings other than himself and his angel. He was accustomed to dealing with Aziraphale’s crises, usually caused by his own rashness and lack of cunning, on his own, working out what was amiss and rushing in to solve the situation himself. There had been occasions when Aziraphale had rescued him, of course. Instances of demonic summoning that he had needed to be released from and one memorable occasion in Constantinople involving the Venetian Ambassador, a camel and fourteen cartloads of oranges which had taken him years and a lot of fine dinners for the angel to stop referring to it with a knowing smirk on his face and a little chuckle. Crowley railed at his current position instinctively balking at being reliant on a bunch of angels, even if he had come to be rather fond of some of them. It is was intolerable to be stuck down here doing nothing while goodness knew what was going on up there.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror near his front door, his newly long hair curling in a messy tangle over his shoulders and thought about his previous disguise. They had told him to stay down here until they came to fetch him for the trial. That was what he should do, it was the sensible thing.

Bollocks to that.

When had he ever done the sensible thing?

Never, that was when, particularly when it came to matters involving Aziraphale. Taking dangerous and ill-advised risks, that was much more his style.

He changed his clothing back to the creamy woollen robe he had been wearing earlier and his Valentino sunglasses into something that blended with his face, the lenses marked with a facsimile of a golden human eye, the same in appearance to that of his brother Cahethal. It would provide cover for his eyes as long as nobody looked at him too closely and he had no intention of letting anyone do that. He would get up there and make some trouble. They couldn’t stop him, he would mingle, he was good at that after years of doing it on Earth. Then he would find the other angels at the Archives and once he was there in the thick of the action, it was very unlikely that they would turn him away, not once whatever it was that they were planning started to happen. Best of all, he wouldn’t be stuck here waiting, he would be doing something to actually help.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, any number of things, but that kind of consideration had never stopped him before, so he wouldn’t let it now. He checked his reflection once more and headed out of the door, running down the stairs of his block and out to where his car stood, sleek, against the kerb. He pulled open the door and swung his body into the Bentley, setting off, tyres squealing, as he peeled away from his parking space and tore along towards central London and the escalators to the celestial realm where the being most dear to him was being held against his will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Let me know what you think.
> 
> There is a little reference to one of the most wonderful of Sir Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels in this chapter. The song that Lamechiel sings is from Night Watch, the best book ever about revolutionary politics. I make this tribute to Sir Terry with love, respect and huge gratitude for all the pleasure that his books have brought me over the years.
> 
> The additional angels we have been introduced to in this chapter are as follows: -
> 
> Lamechiel (Angel) - Leader of OAF insofar as OAF has any leaders [angel who thwarts deception]  
> Baruchiel (Angel) - Member of OAF [angel with power over strife]  
> Hahasiah (Principality) - Soldier in the Heavenly Army  
> Imamiah (Principality) - Soldier in the Heavenly Army  
> Eiael (Seraph) - Head of SeraphTech [angel who oversees the occult sciences]


	16. Can the new world return to the old?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the little angels rise up.
> 
> Crowley goes upstairs and vows to make some trouble, as he gets caught up in the celestial day of action, he quickly finds an opportunity to do just that, but things quickly turn ugly and then uglier still once he meets up with the organisers of the protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rather long chapter this week because lots of things happen in quick succession. We stay with Crowley but will be catching up with Aziraphale next week. I am probably going to have to put the chapter count up again because the trial is becoming more complicated than I thought.
> 
> Nothing ever gets really violent in this fic, because I hate violence and can’t write things like that. There is lots of jeopardy, but nothing beyond that, hence the lack of content warnings in the tags.
> 
> There is another tribute to Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novel Nightwatch in this chapter.
> 
> Thanks go once more to my exceptional Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) and to my friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) for friendship and support.
> 
> As ever, comments and kudos keep me going. I hope you are all keeping safe and sane wherever you are. Thank you for reading, lovely people.

Heaven was usually a tranquil place. It was considered unseemly for angels to run or chatter too much when they were moving from place to place. They were expected to walk with grace and remain silent, maintaining a sanctified and genteel air at all times within the various halls, offices and open spaces that made up the celestial realm. The only noise permitted was the sound of singing and praise in the upper spheres and elsewhere, a low murmur of conversation only was acceptable. Laughing was frowned upon as was shouting. Any yelling that did happen took place during appraisals, held in individual offices and therefore not audible from the corridors and walkways that wound between the different sections and levels.

The place had become even quieter when Ordinary Angel staff were issued with the self-balancing scooters that humans have misnamed hoverboards to use as transportation between offices. Over the years since the creation of the Earth, angels had been consistently fascinated by human innovations for personal transport. At one time Heaven had been full of bicycles, then there was a vogue for roller skates, then blades, despite the occasional collision around corners. There had even been a flirtation with Segways until everyone had decided that they were just silly. Gabriel had been considering what should be employed to replace these, when he had seen the curious electronically powered boards in action during a visit to Hong Kong in 2014. He had ordered the Seraphs in charge of Innovations to look into developing a version for angelic use, and now the whisper of wheels across marble was more often heard than the tapping of shoe leather.

Crowley had been expecting to have to be extremely careful as he travelled up the escalator from the lobby of the Headquarters building. His nerves had been ramping up at the prospect of what he was about to do since he had left the Bentley safe in a multi-story and walked the short distance from there to his destination. His hands were shaking badly and he felt wired, senses super sensitive. He was currently having to fight the urge to laugh manically at the potentially suicidal nature of his present situation, dressed in his robe, feeling out of place in the London streets, like a badly disguised character in some poorly conceived comedy sketch show as he contemplated what he was about to attempt.

The demon was aware that what he was doing was incredibly risky, verging on foolhardy, but it didn’t stop him from forging ahead. It was part of his nature now to do whatever it took to protect his angel and anything had to be better than sitting in his flat, leg bouncing with tension or pacing the floor, waiting passively to be summoned like a bit player in some stage play. This particular drama was central to his life, to both all of his past and everything he wished for his future, he was not about to be relegated to the sidelines

The first impression he received on reaching the top of the moving staircase was of unaccustomed darkness. The contrast from his time there the previous day and during his ordeal as Aziraphale, being hustled along what he recalled as blindingly lit corridors to the great open space where he had been confronted by the three Archangels, was marked. Now, the area ahead of him was dim, there were no overhead lights on at all, the only illumination emanating from the emergency lighting he could see shining out in a muted fashion at intervals close to the ceiling along the corridor. The previously brightly lit passageways were limned with shadows and the atmosphere was subtly different. There was also a marked reduction in the level of power he could sense throughout the air around him. Previously, he had been able to feel the vibration of holy energy right through his corporation, it had been mildly uncomfortable when he had been here last, even in the angel’s vessel. Now, its diminution matched that of the light levels, and he wondered what could have happened to cause this as he walked tentatively forward.

The immediate area at the top of the moving staircase was empty, but, rather oddly, drifting white and pink flowers began to become evident strewn about the cool marble flooring as his steps took him deeper into the atrium. The tall windows still looked over the wonders of the world but the cloistered silence of the huge space was echoing with the sound of running feet and there was the reverberation of tintinnabulation from what sounded like singing, chanting and shouting coming from deeper within the hallowed halls.

Papers scurried about the floor in little eddies of breeze, mixing with the blossom under his feet. One drifted towards Crowley as his hesitant footsteps took him onward. He stooped to pick it up and was shocked to be confronted by an image of Aziraphale, his hands bound together as if at prayer in front of him, the lower part of his face wrapped with tape, eyes wide and frantic. His own face in Aziraphale’s form, he realised, from what Gabriel had described as their ‘extraordinary rendition’ at St James’ Park. He turned the paper over to see text, shouting in different fonts. It was some sort of leaflet. He read it and the nervous laughter rose in his chest once more when he realised what it meant:

OUT, ANGELS, OUT!

Withdraw your labour in support of the PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE arrested and sentenced to death IN SECRET for the crime of LOVING!!!!!

We believe in an ANGEL’S RIGHT TO CHOOSE!!!!!

Stand up for the RIGHT to LOVE ONE ANOTHER FREELY and in PEACE!!!!!

STRIKE TODAY!!!!!

PROTEST and WEAR THE BLOSSOM!!!!!

We SHALL Overcome

Protests assembling at the COURT OF HEAVENLY SESSION AMPHITHEATRE

TODAY AT THE ZENITH OF THE SPHERES

Denser text on the back of the leaflet explained in detail what had happened to both himself and Aziraphale at Tadfield Airbase and during their respective ordeals, and the terms of Aziraphale’s re-arrest and subsequent punishment here in Heaven. There was another image beneath this of own face, contorted in surprise, eyebrows canting above his dark glasses, mouth open as if in the act of speaking, his body curling forward, hand reaching out as he fell on to the tarmac at the park, or as he alone knew, Aziraphale had fallen in his stead, clubbed on the back of the head with a jemmy by Hastur. The text beneath this was blunt:

Protest in HER NAME against the COLLUSION of OUR LEADERS with the FORCES OF HELL!!!!!

SOLIDARITY WITH THE DEMON CROWLEY, OUR DARK ALLY!!!!!

“What the actual _fuck_?” he murmured. The angels had told him about this but he had found it difficult to believe. Now here it was in Papyrus font in front of him, evidence of this weird celestial fanbase that he and the Earth angel had up here, just another thing to add to all the other incredible things he had been forced to accept over the last few days.

He folded the leaflet and placed it in his robe, surprised to find himself moved at the hopeful naivety of the sentiment and amused at the proliferation of exclamation marks. He noted that the text was careful always to emphasise that this was not a rebellion against God’s will, but a protest at the nature of the current governance of Heaven. It was clear that the angels who were spearheading this movement were not seeking another civil war, there was no true dissent that could result in a repetition of that which had caused his own Fall all those years ago. These questions were directed by discontented angels at their fellows, not the Almighty. This was something different, now, something new, something more like human protest in its scope and nature. If what he thought was correct, the noises he could discern were of angels engaged in demonstrations, this, he had to see for himself.

Crowley headed off in the direction of all the noise he could hear, realising now that the singing and chanting, where discernible, featured the angel’s name and his own along with other slogans, the sound smeared and reverberating through all the levels of Heaven. His keenness to get in amongst the protesters was sharpened by what he had read and it was almost light-heartedly that he picked up his pace, hastening to see how he might become involved and chaos he could wreak. Incitement it was called, he could do that,had done it before on Earth at times, he was made for that kind of thing. He was hopeful it might allow him some satisfaction against the angry angels who had committed so many offences against his beloved Aziraphale.

***

Everything had gone remarkably well for the combined agencies of the senior angels and the members of OAF, who had, as promised, proved to be numerous. The contents of the leaflet been finalised and the text and images taken by Raduerial for printing. Miniel had then sent the finalised content to Cahethal and he had seen to it that it was passed to Eiael in SeraphTech. They had spoken with their colleagues and engineered that the images and words appeared on HostWeb whilst shutting down all the other functions of the service. Consequently, when the new day dawned, the only thing present on the entire Heavenly Aethernet were the images of Aziraphale and Crowley being dragged away for punishment and the text written by Pravuil, Jophiel and Lamechiel telling of the perfidy of the Archangels in their deal with Hell and treatment of Aziraphale.

At the same time as this was going on, the Seraphim and Cherubim, who had decided at a meeting the previous evening that they were going to support the action, had organised themselves into teams. From the beginning of the designated Heavenly work day, they saw to it that all systems were powered down to a bare minimum in order to keep the universe functioning and all the stars and planets in their respective orbits and trajectories. This reduction in power was what Crowley had experienced on his entrance to the Heavenly domain. A skeleton staff from both choirs stayed to maintain the equilibrium, the rest departed with the intention of joining the protests.

Noticing the dip in celestial current, Azrael had swooped in on his vast adamantine wings from whatever dimension he had been inhabiting to speak to Seraphiel on the subject of what, exactly, they thought they were doing, messing with power levels in this way. On hearing what was afoot, Azrael had turned his indigo eyes on the senior seraph for a moment and then thrown his head back, his deep laugh echoing across the highest sphere. He made it known to the Seraphim that, on this occasion only, as a one-off, he was prepared to support their action. An accord was made between them that, with regard to the Earth, for one revolution of the planet, before Aziraphale’s trial was scheduled to begin, no death would occur there. Azrael for his part, said he felt it best if he were not associated directly with the activities of the day, according to his status and unwillingness to get involved in what he described as ‘office politics’ in his rich bass voice. Still chuckling, he told his fellow angels that, if he were to be finally gifted with a day off, he intended to spend the entirety of it on a beach in the Bahamas with his wings out, drinking cocktails, smoking cigars and reading _Finnegan’s Wake_ , something he had kept meaning to get round to but had never found the time for because of his undoubtedly continuously hectic schedule. That said, he swirled away and swooped down to the surface of the planet. He had a lovely time and the beach bar staff all felt as they brought his drinks, that they had never met a more unnerving customer, nor one with a greater appetite for rum. It was worth it, they said afterwards, because he had left them an enormous gratuity along with an all-pervading sense that they really ought to _seize the day_ and make the most of their lives while they were still young.

Seraphiel called Cherubiel to join the meeting and they agreed between them that, for this occasion, the Cherubim would bless the world with one perfect day. There would be beautiful weather according to local requirements in the different temperate zones and the suspension of pain, fear and doubt for all creatures living on the small blue/green planet. While there was protest in Heaven, the Earth would enjoy an immaculate twenty four hours. And so it came to pass. For one day on Earth, there was no death and no suffering. Newspapers and other media worldwide reported exceptional weather. Those who were dying paused in the doing of it and spent pain-free time with their families. No hunters ventured out, yet all were fed. Predators slept and prey went about their day unmolested. The troubled found respite, the desperate, peace, and love proliferated everywhere for a wonderful space of time.

As soon as the leaflets were ready, teams of angels in OAF, led by Anpiel, took up bundles of them and air dropped them all across the various levels of the Spheres, flying along the corridors where the offices were situated and over and across the courtyards and compounds where most angels lived and worked. When the bells sounded for the working day to begin, the majority of angels emerged from their quarters to be confronted with reading matter the like of which they had never seen before.

Pravuil, Jophiel, Raduerial and Harahel took small teams of angels to speak with key workers in soul processing, the kitchens, and clerical services and persuaded staff there to withdraw their labour for the day. A number of them did refuse initially, but after seeing their co-workers agree, some of the more timid were encouraged to join them, despite their earlier misgivings, when they understood that there was going to be some measure of solidarity and safety in numbers. Those who remained against the idea were told, kindly but firmly that they would not be stopped from attending their places of work but that they would have to cross the various picket lines that would be in place. No angel was threatened or coerced in accordance with the strict instructions made known to all by Lamechiel in the talk he had given to all of his comrades before they set out to undertake their various tasks the previous evening.

The response amongst the general angel population was pretty much instantaneous and overwhelming. Since before the planned Apocalypse, unhappiness at the current state of things across the spheres had been growing. There was a core of loyalty to the current administration within the group of staff who worked within the Executive Office area and the soldiers of the standing army, but amongst the majority of angels, discontent with the existing regime had been increasing for centuries. The nature of the revelations about both Michael’s and Gabriel’s interactions with Dukes and a Prince of Hell plus the sentencing of one of the Host to death by hellfire was genuinely shocking to the mass of ordinary angels. In addition, the notion of standing up for the ideal of open loving relationships between members of the Host proved to be the tipping point for many. Those who actively supported the aims stated in the leaflet prepared to protest, others, fewer in number decided that the least they could do was to passively register their approval by refusing to go in to work even if they weren’t brave enough to be seen on the streets.

There are a lot of angels in Heaven, a number that would appear countless to human eyes were they to see the Host assembled. Gradually, many of these angels prepared themselves and appeared in the open spaces of Heaven to be met by members of OAF and their affiliates alongside the senior angels of SOCK carrying baskets of cherry blossom. Harahel had taken a look at the EO monitors and seen that, on Earth, the cherry trees were in blossom in the hemisphere where it was spring and had fetched some, both white and pink, and then spent time replicating it, filling a multitude of big baskets that could be carried between two angels flying, to distribute amongst the protesters. The beings flooding into the streets and corridors quickly picked up on the idea and pinned sprigs of the blossom to their clothing, robes for the more traditional angels, shirts, jumpers, jackets and blouses for those who preferred a more human presentation. Some enterprising angels conjured up other spring flowers depending on their preference, primroses, lady’s smock and forget-me-not were amongst those brought into being. Soon the various costumes of gathering angels were resplendent with flowers in all colours, although the predominant impression was of the fluffy tissue paper petals of cherry blossom pinned to their chests in the palest pinks and soft whites, their very impermanence symbolic of the fragility of all their hopes. Their confetti of drifting petals flew free as the sprigs were distributed, whirling round the feet of the angels, who were grouping together as marchers now, congregating and beginning to pick up the beat and cadences of songs that they were adapting to the new slogans being created for the day. So they marched and they grouped together joyfully, smiles wreathing their faces as the flowers thronged on their chests, to sing and shout, in the most unseemly way they could manage, their opposition to the establishment.

***

Deep in the Executive Office Suite , Gabriel was reading through a report on the prosecution case for Aziraphale’s trial sent to him by his lawyer, Rizoel, when Iaoel, a member of his personal secretariat, rushed into his office without knocking, clutching a piece of paper in his hand. The angel was pale and panting, and began stuttering at him as soon as Gabriel lifted his head from what he was looking at and raised an interrogative eyebrow.

“Ermm, gnnnh, hmm, brrr, your magnificence,” he took a breath and gathered what little courage remained to him after a lifetime in the Archangel’s service, and spoke more coherently, “our brethren, sir, they’re…they’re r-revolting out there,” he gasped out finally, his eyes wide. Gabriel was known for his temper and the clerk angel was fully aware that he was the messenger directly in the trajectory of any metaphorical bullets that might be flying about once the Archangel realised what news he was here to deliver.

“Excuse me? They’re what?”

Gabriel had been aware of the loss of power and the system being down as soon as he had started his working day but had assumed that it was some sort of glitch that someone other than he would be responsible for rectifying. Once some time had passed and he realised that there had been no improvement, he had made a mental note to phone the team at Asset Management when he had finished the piece of work he was currently engaged on. He had not logged on to his computer that morning owing to his eagerness to look at the files passed to him by Rizoel. There were no leaflets in the offices where he worked, the protesters had made sure of that. As a consequence, when Iaoel slapped the colourful flier on his desk by way of a response to his question, he was not at all prepared for what he was about to see.

The shouting went on for a very long time, involving language the like of which the clerk had never heard previously. That was what came of visits to Earth and those meetings with Beelzebub, he thought as he ran from the office with his arms over his head. The scrunched-up leaflet followed him with some force and a moment later it was succeeded by a furious suited figure, mobile device pressed to his ear as he ran out and down the corridor, heading for the upper tiers and urging Michael to _pick up her damn phone_ as he went.

***

By the time Crowley sauntered through the office levels and along the broad paved ways into the central region of Heaven, the gathering of angels had developed into a proper demonstration. They had mostly gravitated to the huge natural declivity, smoothly covered with a kind of greensward dotted with flowers, where rallies and parades were held from time to time, and it was here where they congregated now, the banners from the picket lines showing up alongside the others as the time for attendance at places of work had passed.

Members of OAF had spent some considerable time on the Earth Internet researching human protests, observing footage of demonstrations, sit-ins and group actions of all kinds. In advance of the general strike, they had created banners and placards and distributed these amongst the assembled angels once the flower strewing has been completed. As they had searched for protests about love, in particular, alongside those against oppressive regimes, they had viewed countless images of Pride marches as well as those of other types of protests. As a result, and because the angels liked the pretty colours, there was an abundance of rainbow banners and signs saying things like ‘love means love’ and ‘She made us to love’ and ‘proud together’ and ‘some angels love each other, get over it’. Others were simple statements such as ‘Angel rights’, ‘No back channels’ and ‘Free Aziraphale’. Some were just the names of the angel and demon united with images of flowers and hearts.

Crowley loved the sense of organised chaos in what he was seeing and the strong feelings whirling about. The energy he could sense and the transgressive nature of the angels’ intentions filled him with a particular kind of glee. It was exhilarating watching them fling off centuries of docility and he was not at all immune to the general levels of happiness radiating out from he bodies that surrounded him. Any other demon might have been burned by it, but Crowley had spent six thousand years revelling in meetings with an angel who loved everything excessively and showed it, and during that time, he had become not only immune to the feelings this generated in the air, but also appreciative of them. These were not the sour, emotionless killjoys he had been in the company of when he had been here in the guise of Aziraphale, but warm, funny, vulnerable people, who were explicable to him, even if he were no longer one of their number. It was extraordinary, there had never been anything like it here before, but after all the time that had passed, it was long overdue.

Crowley’s insides twisted with the sensations he always had when mischief making was in the offing as he took in the view in front of him. As far as he was capable of seeing into the distance there were angels, masses of them in groups, and couples, the vista extending to the horizon, where they became merely blocks of shifting colours. Many had their arms about each other, some were holding hands in great long chains. It was a sea of vibrant hues, shifting and flowing together, robes and flowers and banners. The air around him reverberated with the sound of singing, chanting and laughter, the beautiful voices gifted to every angel by God raised not in the usual hymns of praise that he had found endlessly repetitive and rather dull, he seemed to remember, but in human songs of protest and love. They declared that they would not be moved, that they would overcome, and most of all, through the very actions that they were taking in this ridiculous, wonderful outpouring of feeling, that they were not to be dismissed or trifled with.

He made his way through the throng of angelic bodies, careful not to engage with anyone, but still picking up the words they were singing and joining in:

_All the little angels, rise up, rise up,_

_All the little angels rise up high…_

He intended to make his way to the Archives building where he hoped to find Pravuil or Miniel or one of the others, then he would make himself indispensable until the start of the trial. He was confident that, once he was there, they wouldn’t send him back down to Earth again to wait.

***

Gabriel arrived at the gateway of the level of the Cherubim to find Cahethal, Cherubiel and Miniel there, clearly waiting to deal with whoever was despatched to challenge them. He eyed the three of them, noticing their implacable expressions. Miniel was dressed in a fine robe of blinding white, a golden girdle hanging heavy about her hips. She wore a holster for her arrows, fletched with the gold tinged feathers taken from her own wings, around one shoulder, and the graceful curve of her yew wood bow was gripped in her hand. Cherubiel was dressed in their ceremonial robe, a pale blue with rich gold embroidery. Their crown was woven through the waves of their hair and their flaming sword rested in a heavy scabbard against the line of their thigh. Cahethal retained his simple robe and was unarmed, the Seraphim being too powerful to have need of conventional weapons.

“I have come to demand that full ethereal power be restored to all the levels,” Gabriel’s usually warm voice sounded thin and reedy as he made his request to the stoney faces in front of him. Only Cahethal looked upon him with any softness in his expression.

“Thou art in no position to make demands upon us this day,” said Cherubiel, their voice formal.

Gabriel knew a show of force when he saw one and hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. He was furious but retained enough judgement to know where his limitations lay in this situation. He would have to try diplomacy. He raised his hands in a placatory gesture.

“Cher, Min, be reasonable,” he began but was cut off by Miniel’s voice.

“Don’t you _dare_ call me that, you patronising arsehole. That’s what my _friends_ call me,” she snapped, “if you’re asking about the lack of power, this is our contribution to the day of action in support of Aziraphale. We voted on it, and everyone agreed. You have no right to question this decision. Go back and gather whatever support you can muster, and we’ll see you at the trial.”

Gabriel smirked at her and looked again at Cherubiel, his customary instinct to seek support from a higher rank kicking in. The taller angel’s face was still, and their blue eyes looked down at the Archangel, half lidded and coolly judgemental.

“Gabriel, thou art not welcome here in the sphere of the Cherubim,” they began, “thou must heed the voices of thy brethren and accept their will. Go now, before I lose patience with thee.”

Stung, Gabriel turned his head to Cahethal. The gentle seraph put his hands together and bowed to acknowledge Gabriel’s position, and then spoke in his soft voice.

“Brother, it has been decided amongst us to support this action, consider what has led to this and try to find some humility. You are reaping what you have sown, accept that and perhaps you may negotiate with the leaders of this protest. I cannot find it in me to regret what is happening today, it has been a long time coming, and, it saddens me to say it, but you only have yourself to blame.”

Gabriel stood back and looked at them, feeling his anger rising but aware that there was little he could do. He eyed their weapons.

“I find you armed here, do you intend to fight?”

“No, Gabriel,” said Miniel, testily, “if you had bothered to _read the leaflet,_ ” she reached up and pulled one out of the air, presenting it to him, “you would have seen that this is a _peaceful protest_ organised by the Host once they were fully informed about the _activities_ you and the other Archangels have been up to lately.Collusion with a Prince of Hell? Attempting to execute a Principality without any kind of trial? As for us, we are dressed like this to attend Aziraphale’s hearing, wearing our official robes and carrying our insignia to offer him _respect_ and _support_ , something he has had precious little of under your supervision.”

“Nobody wants another war, Gabriel,” added Cherubiel, “thy brethren are angry, not foolish. Nobody wishes to Fall. This is a protest, not an attempt at group suicide.”

Gabriel looked at the paper and sneered.

“What this is,” he said, as he tore it in half, “is a piece of foolishness that has gotten quite out of hand.” He dropped the pieces on the floor and they vanished in a puff of purple smoke. He glared at the cherubs and seraph.

“I will address my staff. Once they hear what I have to say, they will give up this… this, display of insubordination and return to their desks. It is all a misunderstanding. They love me down there, I am sure we can clear this up in no time at all, get everyone back to work and then Aziraphale’s trial can go ahead.”

He leaned in towards the other angels, his voice low and fierce suddenly.

“He’s guilty as fuck, a useless, demon-loving waste of space who betrayed us all, and this time I am going to make sure he pays the price for what he did. We _shall_ make an example of the traitor, whatever you all think,”

He straightened up and resumed his customary attitude of expansive bonhomie, an insincere smile curving across his face.

“Okay, I’ll be on my way. See that the power is back in place once this…charade is done now, won’t you?”

With this parting shot, he turned away from the huge ornamental gates to the upper spheres and strode off to the lifts, ignoring Miniel’s _sotto voce_ ‘tosser’ muttered under her breath as he left.

Gabriel gathered his thoughts as he walked. He was pretty sure that Michael would support him in his call for order and if it became necessary, he could count on her to mobilise an armed force to add a certain urgency to his request for calm. Should it be necessary, they could institute a curfew and enforce martial law. Once the fracas had been subdued, he would make it his business to seek out the ringleaders and have them quietly taken into custody.The establishment of Aziraphale’s guilt and his subsequent demotion should serve as a warning to others attempting to upset the established order in Heaven. And then there would be further trials, later, for those who had dared to start this ridiculous movement, and he would see to it that they were destroyed, as a terrible warning. That should be sufficient to re-establish his power and banish any thoughts of dissent for good from the minds of anyone considering it. All he had to do was hold his nerve, he told himself as the lift arrived and he stepped into it. But as he felt the forcefield that operated it descend, a cold feeling of dread gripped him. He never thought he would see the day dawn in which most of the Host was arrayed against him. It was deeply unnerving and he could no longer say with certainty what the future held for him. He shook himself and hardened his nerve, he needed to find Sandalphon and Uriel and join forces with them and Michael, then they would see what could be done to stop this, with extreme prejudice, if necessary.

***

There had been an announcement through the celestial public address system, which still appeared to be functioning despite the power down, that Gabriel would be appearing to address the assembled angels shortly. Crowley, curious to see how the Archangel would look while he was handling this major show of insubordination, stilled his walking feet and stayed within the body of the protesters, waiting for the Archangel’s appearance. It was not long before the familiar figure made his entrance, huge and resplendent in ceremonial robes, descending on the vast span of his blindingly bright wings to the dais that overlooked the gathering area at the centre of this tier.

The singing and chanting tailed off as the angels noted his presence, and all faces turned towards him with the obedience born of old habit. He opened his arms in an all encompassing gesture, broad hands palm out, and looked about him, taking in the sight of the multitude. It was clear that he had not been expecting so many people to be gathered in front of him. The crowd followed the motion of his head as his gaze swung across them for a moment, and then he began to speak, his amplified voice booming across the arena.

“Angels! Hearken unto to me, your leader! I am come to speak unto you!”

He had their attention effortlessly and Crowley’s heart sank as he watched the Archangel do precisely what he had been created for. He could not face seeing the crowd be persuaded to abandon their action and return to their customary subservience. Gabriel’s face assumed a smug expression as he took in the rapt attention he was receiving from his audience, and he continued to speak.

“It is good to see so many of you here, and I commend your enthusiasm, even if, at this time, it is a little misplaced. The time has come now for you to disperse, return to your work and we shall say no more about this foolishness.”

This second statement was greeted with a gentle wave of muttering that swept over the crowd. Gabriel heard it and his face darkened.

“Come now, brothers, and, erm, sisters…”

_“Typical Gabe,”_ Crowley heard in a loud whisper from somewhere behind him, _“us girls are always an afterthought.”_

He could hear comments from other voices around him and the general muttering grew louder. Hoping that the mood of the crowd might be turning, he chanced his arm. He could do this, ‘ _Time for a spot of incitement,’_ he thought to himself.

“WHAT ABOUT AZIRAPHALE?” he shouted, and ducked down behind a particularly tall Throne, then scurried along to a different area of the crowd.

Gabriel frowned into the mass of angels to see where the comment had come from, focussing on where Crowley had been standing.

“The Principality Aziraphale will be dealt with by due legal process as is customary, there is nothing for you to be concerned about. Now, please move on, and do not give me occasion to doubt your loyalties.”

Gabriel’s tone had sharpened and his head turned quickly when another comment was fired out of the mass of bodies.

“BOLLOCKS!”

“Who said that? he snapped, scanning the sea of upturned faces. The muttering grew louder.

Crowley grinned as he kept his head down and wove between bodies, hissing apologies as he went.

Gabriel’s face flushed with colour and his expression turned thunderous as he surveyed his audience, his mouth a mean line.

“You will ALL return to your quarters NOW. I will not tolerate this disobedience! Disperse before I am forced to take extreme measures!”

‘ _Good,’_ thought Crowley _‘he’s losing control’._ The discontented noises from the crowd were growing louder and comments from individual angels were now discernible to Crowley’s ears as he moved between them.

‘Well, that’s not very nice!”

“Who does he think he’s talking to?”

“He never listens”

“Always been like this, arrogant so and so.”

“Yeah, who _does_ he think he’s talking to?”

“Gabriel!” yelled Crowley, “is it true you brought hellfire into Heaven?”

He scampered on and shouted out again from a different position in the crowd, “what have you got against love anyway, you big arse?”At this point, other voices were raised to join Crowley’s.

“Answer the question!”

“What have you got to hide?”

“Yeah, tell us brother.”

“ENOUGH!” bellowed Gabriel, his face puce, control slipping, “I DEMAND THAT YOU STOP THIS AT ONCE, DO WHAT YOU ARE TOLD OR YOU SHALL ALL PAY A HEAVY PRICE.”

That was the point at which the muttering turned angry, and a chorus of voices started shouting and booing.

“Ooh, threats is it now?”

“We aren’t gonna be treated like this.”

“Unfair, unfair!”

Crowley took the initiative and bawled out again.

“FREE AZIRAPHALE!”

This appeared to be the phrase that opened up the sluice gates, the crowd of angels took up the chant and the sound of booing intensified, the volume of protesting noises rising quickly within the natural amphitheatre to a level that precluded hearing even the Archangel’s amplified voice.

Gabriel raised his arms and brought them down in a placatory gesture and Crowley could see his mouth moving but, although some fragments of what he was saying, something about asking for calm and further threats of some sort of action, could be heard, most of his words were swallowed up in the noise coming from the assembled angels, many of whom were booing, while some of them resumed the songs and chants that they had been engaged on before the arrival of the Archangel.

Cowley watched as Gabriel retrieved his phone from his robe and made a call, nodding his head as he spoke. He was just thinking that he ought to be leaving when there was a commotion that emanated from the back of the field in which they were all standing, where the entrance to the arena was situated. He turned back to look at Gabriel, and saw that he was smiling and looking across the heads of everyone to the source of the new noise.

It took a couple of seconds for Crowley to make sense of the new noises, it was angels screaming. All at once a tidal wave of bodies was moving away from the entrance to their place of assembly. The source of the protesters’ consternation became clear in a moment. A glittering row of soldier angels in full armour were advancing, mounted on the heavy cavalry horses that were bred for battle. The armoured white destriers were terrifying. Created blind, they were utterly fearless, each tied to its rider by a mental link, obeying only their instructions. The horses were deadly in their own right, dispensing injury from their savage teeth and stamping hooves. With the addition of a mounted soldier wielding sword, spear or heavenly flame, they were awesome indeed. At the front of this cavalry charge rode Michael, resplendent in her military finery.

The assembled throng was backing away from this spectacle and Crowley went with them, horrified at what he was seeing. They were turning the soldiers on their own siblings. This was brutal. Whatever the protesters had intended, the Archangels seemed determined to turn this into another civil war. Crowley twisted his head as he walked backwards and looked across to where Gabriel was standing. He had been joined by both Sandalphon and Uriel now, and they stood together on the platform, viewing the spectacle of the frightened angels below them with expressions of satisfaction on all of their faces, leaning in to speak with each other as they watched. Crowley could see the way in which the wind was blowing here and started to work his way through the standing angels to the edge of the arena, taking glances over his shoulder continually so that he could see what was going on

Some of the angels seemed determined to stand firm, and that plus the inability of the volume of bodies to leave the arena quickly, meant that a space had opened up and the line of soldiers were now facing a wall of demonstrators, some of whom were clearly scared, some visibly angry. The chanting and booing had stopped and Gabriel’s voice rang out again.

“Disperse and return to your homes and none of you will get hurt, go in peace. This is my last warning to you!”

Crowley couldn’t see for sure what happened next as he was moving away from the centre of the crowd but there was some sort of ruckus and exclamations from the angels nearest the line of cavalry, and then Michael’s voice was raised in a staccato shout and the soldiers’ arms were thrust into the air to launch firebolts that arced over the heads of the demonstrators. The terrified crowd swayed and then stampeded, screams ringing out. Crowley thought he saw bodies crash down in the crowd where the shot had landed before he started to run in earnest, dodging the people in front of him and diving down a passageway running off from the amphitheatre into a residential complex. He ran as fast as he could, hearing other running feet behind him as he came to a wider thoroughfare. At some point in his progress, his glasses had been knocked from his face but he could not stop to retrieve them, so he ran on, making for the Archives and the hope of finding his allies there.

***

Peter had been having a quiet morning in Soul Reception. He had seen the leaflets about but hadn’t bothered reading any of them, assuming that it was angel business and nothing to do with him. He wasn’t an angel and his job was very specific, so apart from a bit of chat on breaks with one or two angels he knew, in the main, he concentrated on his work, which kept him busy pretty much constantly. He had never thought to ask why he didn’t get holidays. As is the case with most receptionists, he had become both stoical and rather obstinate over the years. There was little he hadn’t seen and not much he hadn’t been on the receiving end of, so most of the time, he ignored anything other than that right in front of him and got on with being that mixture of pleasant and petty that distinguishes the habitual bureaucrat.

When two angels dressed in black and red had turned up and told him that they were here to appropriate his reception desk for the cause, he hadn’t been quite sure what was the best thing to do. They had lifted the huge curved unit out from under him almost, and left him there marooned in his swivel chair. When he had run after them, shouting, they had turned and looked at him as if he was an idiot.

“Strike’s on all day, haven’t you ‘eard, mate? There won’t be any work for you today, ’s been an agreement, an’ no-one’s dyin’”

Without any further instruction as to what he should be doing to guide him, and freed from the locus of his job, Peter had followed the two angels carting his desk asking non-stop questions about the industrial action until they all arrived at the impressive facade of the Akashic Records Repository. Here the two angels had placed the desk on its side, shoving it in to block the entire bottom of the enormous ornate gateway to the Archives. Shortly after this, other angels, similarly dressed, arrived bearing all manner of office furniture and soon work began stacking it on top of the huge wooden form of Peter’s reception desk. Before long, a full barricade had been erected in the archway, rendering it impassible, and Peter found himself on the top of it, looking out and discussing revolutionary politics with a friendly angel who regarded him with honest rose pink eyes. They chatted and the angel had told him everything he wanted to know about what his rights should be, were the regime he worked under fair and equitable to its employees. It didn’t take long for Peter to become radicalised, the realisation of the extent to which he had been exploited for all the years he had been working at this job following hotly on the heels of this epiphany. To say that he was a fervent convert to the cause would have been an understatement.

***

When Crowley arrived, the barricade was in place with Miniel visible at the top of it, alongside an angel with bright pink hair that he couldn’t recall meeting previously. He stared at the looming wall of office equipment, amazed. The structure was composed entirely of desks, filing cabinets and drawer units stacked on top of one another with chairs and the odd angle-poise lamp wedged into the spaces. It appeared to be fairly solid. As he looked, a tonsured head popped up next to the two angels at the top and shouted out.

“Up the workers! Power to the people! Peace, equality and justice for all!”

“And a hard boiled egg!” he shouted back, making Miniel laugh as she spotted him.

“Crowley, darling,” she called down, smiling at him, “I might have known you wouldn’t do what you were told. What in Heaven’s name are you doing here, you idiot boy?”

“Not in Heaven’s name, no, but what can I say? I’m a creature of chaos, I couldn’t keep away,” said Crowley, laughing, “can I come up, if you haven’t heard, I’ve news about what is going on in the lower tiers. That bastard Michael turned up at the demo with an army platoon. There’s been firebolts discharged, possible casualties.”

“Excuse me, but who’s this?” cut in Lamechiel, looking at Miniel, “Is it one of the seraphim, I thought they were all elsewhere just now? Did you ask him the code word? Why do we need an egg?”

“No, it’s okay darling, It’s Crowley. Crowley, meet Lamechiel, the architect of our barricade and founder member of OAF. Looks like you were right, Lammie, we are going to need this after all,” she turned back to Crowley, “come on then, what are you waiting for? Spill darling, spill, and, yes, why the egg?”

“Well, you’re asking for everything else, you might as well go for an egg while you’re at it,” he returned, cryptically. Then he in his turn looked puzzled.

“Oaf?”

“I’ll explain later, darling. Get your skinny arse up here.” Crowley started climbing.

Lamechiel had guessed that it was very likely that the army would be called out and, realising that the Archives building was defendable, had persuaded the other angels of the need for a barricade, behind which they could negotiate with whoever turned up with soldiers to defend the status quo.

“Of course we don’t want any aggro, of course not,” he had explained, “but we need somewhere to speak to them from if they come for us, otherwise they will just chase us in there and pick us off one by one as they go through the building, see? This way, we get to negotiate.”

Once Crowley was installed at the top of the barricade and had been introduced to Peter, he was summoned deeper into the building by Pravuil for a hasty meeting of all the angels present in the Archives. Crowley spent some little time explaining to everyone there what he had seen at the demonstration. Other members of OAF arrived not long after Crowley and corroborated what he had told them. More and more angels loyal to the strike turned up over the next hours, including Baruchiel and Cherubiel. Harahel and Raduerial were already holed up in one of the records strongrooms. They all joined the meeting and the aftermath of the attack was gone over. It appeared that a few angels had been injured but the majority attending at the amphitheater had followed Gabriel’s instructions and the body of the demonstration was in the process of dispersing and returning to their homes. There was a sense of shock at the deployment of troops but there was enough adrenaline going about to ensure that spirits remained at a rather manic high. Each one of them knew they were the last bulwark of the movement and nobody had any idea what the outcome of their endeavour might be.

“That just leaves us, “ said Baruchiel, “the platoon and Michael are on their way. This is our last stand, now.”

“They will want to arrest us, we must stand firm and negotiate, they can’t destroy us all, we stick together and make our point. There is not much time left until Aziraphale’s trial.” Cherubiel was solemn, “I am prepared to speak with Michael, I am confident that I can get her to see sense. You all stay back here.”

“Not bloody likely, darling,” said Miniel, “I’m coming with you, that bitch isn’t getting away with anything without me being there by your side.” They looked down at her affectionately and squeezed her hand.

“Together then, my love,” they said.

“We’ll all speak with her as a group apart from you,” said Lamechiel, pointing at Crowley, “you stay hidden, we need you for the trial, don’t go doing anything stupid, you hear me now?”

“Mnneugh, okay,” Crowley acquiesced, seeing the validity of the argument. He wasn’t going too far away though, he wanted to see Michael and hear what she had to say.

There was tension while they waited, nobody spoke as they were lost in their suddenly small worlds of ‘what if’, all of them were concerned not only for themselves but also for their loved one, and it made for a very tense wait. Finally there were noises outside and a bugle call was heard, and then an authoritative voice shouting.

“Come on, show yourselves, time for you all to give yourselves up. Come out quietly and nobody gets hurt.”

Cherubiel and Miniel climbed to the top of the barricade and looked down at Michael, who stood there flanked by two soldiers wearing breastplates and battle kilts, swords in hand. She was dressed in dark blue trousers with red stripes at the side tucked into knee-high boots. Her tunic was blindingly white, encrusted with gold braid and medals. She looked extremely angry.

‘You two, I might have known. What do you have to say for yourselves, hmm?”

“Lord Michael,” began Cherubiel, “It was a peaceful protest of our brethren, who wished to bring the attention of our administration to their grievances. It is you that have made it something other than that with your actions.”

What her riposte to this comment might have been will never be known, for at that point, the desk that Crowley had been standing on at the side of the barricade so that he could see Michael through a gap in the pile of furniture there and hear what she was saying, shifted, and a whole section of the structure gave way, dropping Crowley to the ground. He rolled to save himself from hitting his head, ending up in an ungainly sprawl at Michael’s feet.

“Who’s this?” she asked, poking at the figure with her booted foot.

Cherubiel unfolded their wings and flew down, hauling Crowley to his feet, nearly dislocating his shoulder as they did so.

“One of my brethren of the Seraphim, Michael. He came at my bidding. He was just about to leave. Come brother, take your leave while I speak with Lord Michael here.”

Crowley kept his head bowed and nodded. He could feel Michael next to him, sense her power and her rage and he was horrified when she grabbed him by the chin and tipped his head back so that she could see his face. He held his breath and kept his eyes tightly closed.

Michael wasn’t known for her stupidity. Michael had seen all the Earth Observation images of Crowley, seen him with all kinds of clothes and hairstyles, seen him looking very like this but dressed in black.

“One of the Seraphim, “ she said, her voice sceptical, “doesn’t look… oh my good God, you disgusting creature, what, by all that is holy, are you doing here?” She shifted her hand to his neck and held him in a vice-like grip.

Cherubiel was about to answer when Crowley opened his eyes and got in first.

“It was me, I tricked them, I tricked them all.”

He took a gasping breath against her fingers and continued. “They have no idea who I, eurgh, am. They thought I was a ssseraph, they are all under a demonic enchantment. Ssshould wear off in a bit, not their fault.”

Michael tightened her hold on Crowley’s neck and nodded to her associates.

“Bind him, he’s a tricky one so make sure it’s done properly.”

The two soldiers surged up and took Crowley by the shoulders, yanking his arms behind him and binding his hands there. He rolled his eyes.

“Sssso stick of thisss, keepss happening”

The soldiers pushed him forward so that he was on his knees in front of Michael. She drew her sword and placed it against his neck. He felt the cold metal and the sting of holy steel beneath his jaw. Crowley cursed his folly, cursed his stupid foolhardiness, cursed the fate that had brought him here. He had gambled everything on this venture and now his luck had run out. He thought of Aziraphale, alone up here without him and hoped that the other angels would save him and take care of him, afterwards. He opened his eyes and fixed his golden gaze on the furious face above him.

“Hey, Michael, duuude. How’s tricks?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional angels this week are:
> 
> Seraphiel (Seraph) - Prince Angel of the Seraphim [Head of the Seraphim]  
> Azrael - Angel of Death  
> Iaoel (Angel) - Gabriel’s PA [angel of visions]
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	17. Do not fall any deeper in love now, you have been warned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out what Aziraphale has been doing and what has happened to Crowley, who was left with a sword at his throat at the end of the last chapter. Aziraphale’s trial commences at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is ever the case, I owe huge thanks to my lovely Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) for her kindness, humour and eagle eyes, and to my friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) for headcanon and encouragement when I have been quite clearly off my rocker of late. I love all three of you.
> 
> Comments sooth the wrinkled brow of this author and kudos make me smile.
> 
> I am honoured to have been gifted art for this chapter by the lovely [MsMoonstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsMoonstar/pseuds/MsMoonstar)  
> You can see it here [Aziraphale at his trial](https://imgur.com/a/Zz5tfLM) I am grateful and overwhelmed at this lovely gift!!!

There had been an air of excitement running through the military establishment in the days leading up to Aziraphale’s trial. He had not been told anything directly himself, the only news he received was via the two cherubs who had come to visit him faithfully every week. Now, all he could hear was the sounds of panic. There were running feet, the thudding reverberation of massive hooves, there was shouting. Angels were opening the stores and bringing out armour and the tackle for the celestial heavy horses, the jingling of harnesses and rattle of metal against metal ringing out across the compound. He looked out tentatively from where he was working in the forge and could see soldiers in uniform hurrying to tack up their mounts. Breastplates were being buckled on. All of this unexpected activity only served to increase the anxiety he was already feeling and his internal tension was exacerbated by the fact that he had no idea what had happened to provoke it. He had a horrible feeling that it might be something to do with Crowley.

Although Cherubiel had hastened to see Aziraphale as soon as Crowley’s memories had been restored, his initial feelings of pleasure and relief at the news were soon tempered by the sickening realisation that Crowley could be in danger once more, and all because of him and his vengeful brethren. Aziraphale remembered Crowley’s rage during their last evening together at Gabriel’s behaviour when he had condemned him to death, and everything he had said at the time about what he would like to do, were he ever to be given the opportunity to confront the Archangel. He knew that Crowley could be hotheaded at times, and now he fretted endlessly at the possibility that he might be foolish enough to consider making an attempt to rescue him from his current predicament, an attempt that would undoubtedly prove fatal for the demon. This particular worry consumed Aziraphale and rendered him mute with frustration at his current helplessness.

Aziraphale had almost given up on any hopes he had previously nurtured concerning his own fate, resigning himself to being found guilty and then subjected to a painful and humiliating demotion in whatever form that would take. He had no hope that the process wouldn’t be anything other than deeply unpleasant for him if Michael was in any way involved. Then there would be an eternity spent in some filing room or other, no doubt, engaged in the most tedious work they could think of for him. He had already determined that he would not submit to it, would find some means to end things for himself if he could manage to. He had even wondered gloomily for a time if there was any hellfire still in Heaven, and if so, just how he might be able to find some way to lay his hands on it. Now, it was just a matter of getting through the hours until his trial, and after that, he would see. The only thing that animated him in any way was this nagging worry about Crowley’s welfare. There was a time during his punishment when the news of Crowley’s returned memories would have been a source of delight. It was deeply ironic, therefore to realise, after all of his previous distress on the subject, that he would have infinitely preferred for Crowley to have remained oblivious, and safe.

He looked up on hearing approaching footsteps and saw the shadowy figures of two sergeants blocking what little light came in through the door. They strode purposefully into the gloom of the forge towards him, the glow from the fire reflecting off their buttons and insignia.

“Aziraphale, with us, now, you’re to be moved. Put that down.” The taller of them gestured at the sword he was holding.

“Yes, all right, just let me…”

He laid the sword down, removed his heavy leather apron and brushed himself down, feeling a tremor in his legs at whatever this new development represented.

“What is all this, I thought I was to stay here until my…”

They moved forward and grabbed him by the arms.

“No talking, sunshine, just move it.”

The two sergeants hustled him from the room and he was marched at a brisk pace across the yard, past the cavalry angels mounting their horses now, breastplates gleaming in the sunlight, and on, out of that area and towards another group of buildings Aziraphale had not been in before. As they walked he could hear shouts, chanting and singing now and again, drifting over to them with the fresh breezes that constantly blew across Heaven. For a moment, Aziraphale had the impossible thought that he heard his own name amongst the noise, but that couldn’t be right, he must be imagining things. He turned his head and looked at the slab like face to his left, impassive over the chinstrap of his white helmet.

“What’s that shouting, what’s going on, why are the soldiers mobilising?”

“Nothing you need to know about, not where you’re going. Keep your nose out and your mouth shut, laddie,” barked the taller Sergeant.

They reached a forbidding hulk of a building, its massive walls broken only by tiny openings filled with bars. The sergeant who hadn’t spoken produced a ring of keys and opened the gate. They crossed a courtyard and approached a stout wooden door, which was again unlocked by the quiet sergeant. Aziraphale was hustled through this and into a vestibule area where there was a desk behind which a bored looking soldier lounged. He straightened up when he saw the sergeants

“Keys for 25, please mate, for this one ‘ere,” he indicated Aziraphale.

“Here ya go, better make sure you keep him well covered, I’ve heard all about him,” he laughed, handed a key to the Sergeant and regarded Aziraphale with amused eyes, “not so clever now are you, Earth boy?” he said, harshly.

“Um, I…” murmured Aziraphale, his speech tailing off when the other soldiers laughed as he realised that the question hadn’t required an answer

He was taken up some stairs and walked along a corridor to one of the doors set along its walls. The soldier that had remained silent so far unlocked it, looking Aziraphale in the face with something that appeared to be sympathy.

“You are to stay here until your trial. There have been some… disturbances, so you’re better off here,” he said, almost kindly.

“Disturbances? What kind of…?”

Aziraphale wasn’t allowed to continue speaking as the ebullient Sergeant cut across him.

“Never you mind, laddie. Someone will bring you tea and your uniform later, you are to change and make yourself respectable and we’ll come back and take you to the court room.”

“But…”

“No, button it. Sit down do what you’re told you horrible little angel, you.”

Aziraphale did what he was told, sitting on the hard chair in the empty cell, casting despairing eyes at the heavy door as its clanged shut and the two soldiers left. Just when he thought things couldn’t become any worse, they immediately did so. At least at the forge he was warm, occupied and felt a little bit useful. Now he was alone again, he looked at the bare walls and low ceiling and felt them crowd around him.

“Not long to go, old thing,” he muttered, “buck up Aziraphale, you can do this, don’t let the side down now.”

He sighed and sat back in the uncomfortable chair, thinking of Crowley, as usual. He dug around in his psyche and found what shreds of resolve remained to him, straightening his back into his customary upright posture and contemplating what was about to happen at his hearing. They would all be there, those beings who had looked down on him for his entire life. Aziraphale could be stubborn when he wished, and he resolved to be dignified in the face of them, whatever arguments they trotted out against him. This one time, at the last, he would not give them the satisfaction of his subservience and fear.

At that point, his musings were interrupted by the tinny sound of metal on metal. Someone was tapping on the pipes at the back of the adjacent cell.

***

Crowley continued to smile through the feeling of the flat of Michael’s blade against his neck, the freezing steel burned and he felt the aura of the weapon. It seemed to whisper to him of all the deeds that it had done, the severing of wings and cutting away of grace. He endured the pitiless vibration of its power coursing through his corporation while he grinned into the picture of angelic wrath above him. Her expression changed to one of resolution and he closed his eyes, remembering the brightness of Aziraphale’s smile, wanting that to be the last thing in his mind and hoping that when the blow came it would at least be quick. There was a tiny pause during which he held his breath and then there was the sound of Cherubiel’s rich voice cutting through the air.

“Stay thy hand, Michael, what wouldst thou do here?”

If anything, the blade pressed more tightly against his neck at this, the edge of it like a razor cutting into the underside of his jaw. Aziraphale had sharpened it well, the silk had fallen into two pieces with nary a whisper when he dropped it against the edge of the blade. Crowley felt the warmth of a little blood rolling down his neck and swallowed, moving his body away from the sword slightly to ease the pressure on his throat. He opened his eyes again and rolled them up to see what was going on. The Prince of the Cherubim was standing just behind his head now, all four glorious wings out, the upper pair mantled around their shoulders. Their head was close to Michael’s above him, their expression open, and full of a fierce entreaty.

“Don’t you dare _thou_ me, Cherubiel,” hissed Michael’s furious voice, “This is a military matter, I have superiority here, as well you know.”

In response, Cherubiel said something complicated in an ancient language that Crowley could no longer understand. The musical syllables rolled out over his head and hung in the still air above them. The pressure on his neck eased a little and Michael spoke again.

“I am not your _little sister_ any more Cherubiel, not now. You are in no position to insist.”

“I beg of you then, Michael, think what it is you are doing and what it will mean. Spill this demon’s blood here, in Heaven, and you will start the War.”

“And what if that is exactly what we want? What are you going to say to stop me then, you _bloody pacifist_?”

“No! Think, Michael. What position are we in to fight now with all of Heaven in uproar? How do you think we will meet them, as we are today? Begin it with his death here and you risk losing, risk the overthrow of our dominion and everything we have worked for through all eternity. Would you take that risk, Michael, for the sake of this small triumph here? Is he worth all that to you?"

There was a pause, full of tension and their faces, one dark with anger, the other noble and impassive, the features bright with urgency, hung above Crowley as the demon looked between them. Then the blade left his neck and he heard the noise of it being sheathed again. Michael raised her leg and pushed him in the chest with her booted foot so that he sprawled supine on the marble floor once more, this time at Cherubiel’s feet, his bound hands wedged beneath him.

“You win, this time, _brother_ , but we will take him as our prisoner. He may prove useful as a bargaining tool, if they still want him, that is, after all he has done. If not, we can chain him up, see to it that he never interferes in our business again.”

Cherubiel stooped and lifted Crowley by his shoulders, setting him on his feet. They left one large hand around Crowley’s bicep, holding and grounding him as they spoke with Michael. Crowley was, in a strange way, glad of it, the touch of an ally, meant to reassure. He felt a little power trickle into him and the blood from the injury under his jaw stopped flowing, the skin there knitting together as the wound closed up.

“Thanks mate, ‘preciate it,” said Crowley, smiling again at Michael. Her expression would have curdled milk.

“If you are to take him, see to it that he is dealt with without cruelty, Michael, we should be the better in our behaviour. It behoves us to treat a prisoner well, even if he is of Hell.”

Miniel, seeing that the situation had calmed somewhat, flew down and joined her partner, standing on the other side of Crowley and resting her hand on his shoulder. Above them, Lamechiel, Baruchiel, Harahel , Pravuil and Raduerial along with other angel rebels continued to look down, observing the scene, expressions of concern on all of their faces

“Hello Michael, looking very chic in all that bling, darling.”

“Miniel,” said Michael, tersely, curling her lip at the comment. She looked back at the two soldiers behind her, “Netzach, Poyel, take him now.”

The two stepped forward, smartly and stood in front of Cherubiel, who gave up his hold on Crowley with clear reluctance. One of the soldiers took Crowley by his bound hands with a moue of distaste on his face at touching him, and pulled him around, roughly, so that he was facing the other angels.

“Wings, demon,” he shouted.

“What, _now?”_ drawled Crowley, still looking at Miniel and Cherubiel. He winked at them with an insouciance he hardly felt, wishing to make the whole situation less tense, “don’t worry about me, I’ll be just fine.”

Miniel nodded her head slowly, her eyes showing her sorrow.

“ _Your wings, you hellspawn_ ,” shrieked the soldier in his ear.

“All right, keep your hair on, soldier boy,” said Crowley, a smirk spreading across his face.

He manifested his dark wings and immediately they were bound to his body, and he felt his power drain down to a thready whisper.

“That should keep you from getting up to any of your old tricks, you piece of shit.”

It was Michael’s voice, full of rage and loathing. She stepped up to the two soldiers bracketing Crowley’s body now and looked back at the assembled angels and the barricade.

“Get this cleared up, and we’ll deal with you all later. You ought to be ashamed, the whole lot of you.”

Her voice was bitter as she zeroed in on Cherubiel and Miniel.

“You two, members of God’s sacred choir, you’re a disgrace. Why aren’t you afraid of falling? You should be, after everything you have done today, inciting rebellion, going against Her will.”

“How dare you Michael!”

Miniel walked from Cherubiel’s side and confronted the Archangel, her face blazing with her anger.

“What is it you’re saying here, hmm? That what you do is Her will? That what you do represents what She wants? How long is it that you, or any of the four of you, and that goes for Metatron too, how long since She has spoken directly to any of you?”

Michael opened her mouth and made some incoherent noises but Miniel merely smiled in the face of them and continued.

“Ha! I thought so. What we were doing here today was a protest against you, and the choices you and the other three have made, on your own, without consulting anyone but each other. We protest against _your_ actions, not against anything to do with Her will. The only reason this hasn’t got much, much uglier, and you don’t want to see me when I get really angry, _sister_ , is because we believe in peaceful protest, not war!”

Miniel’s wings were out in all their glory and she raised them behind her, leaned in and prodded Michael in the chest with her index finger.

“You,” she said, bitterness dripping from the short syllable, “you are the one who ought to be ashamed. You should be on your knees, Michael, asking forgiveness of us, and our brother Aziraphale and, yes, even of this demon here you are treating so harshly, and do you know why? Because all of us are more righteous in the choices we have made than you have been for as long as I can remember now. There will be a reckoning some day Michael, and I just hope that I am here to see it. So no, I am not afraid of Falling, but you should be, _dear_ sister. Watch your back, keep an eye on the colour of those wings.”

With this parting shot, she gave Crowley one more squeeze on his arm, turned her back on the seething Archangel, and walked back to take her place at the side of her beloved.

“Go, Michael,” said Cherubiel as they took Miniel’s hand and kissed the back of it, “and we shall see you at the trial. Crowley, be of good heart, we will see you again.”

Michael’s face was white with fury, her lips pinched. She tilted her head and scanned the line of assembled angels at the top of the barricade within the great arch of the Archives building.

“You will be hearing from me very soon with regard to disciplinary action, all of you,” she shouted at the assembled angels, “in the meantime, I’ll see you two at the trial. Oh yes,” she turned to Crowley and lowered her voice, a merciless smile replacing the fury on her features, “your useless friend, the Principality, he’s to be tried today, in a couple of hours in fact. Let’s see how cocky you are when you hear him screaming after I’ve taken off those little cherub wings of his. Right, men, time to go, let’s get this repulsive creature to his cell.”

“You bitch,” said Miniel as they were leaving, “I can’t believe what you’ve turned into.”

She and Cherubiel watched in silence as Michael and the soldiers marched the bound figure of the demon away from the Archives building.

“Oh Cher, this had better work, for all our sakes.”

***

Aziraphale tightened the buckle at the top of his dress kilt and looked around for his sock flashes. He had already put the white waistcoat on over his starched shirt, and now his hands were shaking as he reached for the blue formal dress jacket with its gold braid. He would have to tie the midnight blue bow tie as well, something he hadn’t done for months now. His white brogues and the ridiculous spats to be worn over them sat on the cell floor with the box containing the medal he had been awarded after the Great War. It was a copy, the original was probably in his bookshop somewhere, stuffed to the back of a drawer. He had been proud of it once, now it merely symbolised the fracture of what he remembered as a beautiful place, that and the destruction of all that had been fine and lovely about it. It also served as a reminder of the casting down of a person he had come to wholeheartedly believe had not done that much to deserve it, especially when he compared the recent actions of Crowley, gentle nanny to a human child, thwarter of the apocalypse and holder of his own hand as he consoled him over the loss of his bookshop, to those of the four Archangels who had brought him to this pretty pass. He pinned it on his chest, wrinkling his nose as he looked down at it.

There had been an interlude when he had spoken with other prisoners on this floor in a short but illuminating conversation conducted in a mixture of morse code and loud whispers. He had found out that they knew little of recent events, having been incarcerated for their protest at the time of the failed Apocalypse. Now everything was silent as he dressed for his trial.

The soldiers would be back for him soon. His tea sat untasted near the door. His stomach was in spasm and he could no more have put anything in it than miracled himself to the moon. He was intensely anxious and that ghostly fluttering had started up in his chest again. He walked the three steps it took to get to the cell window and looked out at what he could see outside the building. There was an air of something suddenly, he could almost smell it, a familiar pull at the heart of him, prickling on through his senses. He recognised it immediately, it was a feeling that had become familiar to him over the centuries, that tingle that told him a particular occult agent was in the vicinity. He homed in on it like a receiver picking up a signal and his heart sank as it grew stronger.

_Crowley._

Crowley here or somewhere nearby.

He thought about calling out but he realised that this course of action was not likely to be in either his or the demon’s interests. If Crowley was in hiding, it would betray his whereabouts. If, and his gut twisted harder at this thought, he had been captured, it would merely serve to remind the angels who held him of his connection to a renegade angel who was about to be punished. He felt sweat beading his hairline at the thought of either of these two possibilities. Then there was the sound of marching feet and the jangle of keys outside his cell. Cerviel stood in the doorway with the more aggressive sergeant from before standing behind him.

“Time to go, Principality Aziraphale, everyone’s ready and waiting for you. Get a move on lad.”

Aziraphale indicated his shoes and spats, “Just got to, erm…”

“Well, hurry up for goodness sake,” came the tetchy response, “we haven’t got all bleeding day.”

He slid his feet into the shoes, tying the laces of each one, slowly. Then he lifted the spatter guards and inserted his shod feet into them, pulling them into position around his calves and fastening them there, fumbling with the buttons. Every second of delay seemed important, the hope that Crowley might somehow still appear and save the day refusing to be dislodged from his mind, however impossible that idea continued to be, he couldn’t shake it, force of habit, he supposed.

“Right, um, here we go,” his voice quavered for a moment and he cleared his throat, “ready, yes.”

“Hands!” Cerviel ordered, coldly. Aziraphale presented his hands at his middle. Cerviel snapped cuffs around his wrists and he was led from his cell.

As the three angels walked across the compound of the prison block, once again, Aziraphale thought he heard his name being called on the wind. The sound was faint but unmistakable. It was Crowley, Crowley’s voice calling for him. He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, but didn’t go as far as voicing the familiar word that rose to his lips. Calling the demon’s name would do neither of them any favours at this juncture. He reached out with his mind, hoping Crowley might pick up on the urgent words he had for him.

“ _Crowley, don’t come near, too dangerous. There’s nothing you can do for me now. Please Crowley, get away from here, if you can.”_

There was no response. Aziraphale looked behind him, straining to see, as he was marched away towards the Session Court arena but no familiar figure manifested itself. He turned his head forward and gave himself up to whatever was going to befall him at the hands of Heavenly justice.

***

As he was hustled along by the two loyalist Principalities, bound and powerless, Crowley continued to bellow the angel’s name as loudly as he could. He had no recourse to demonic miracles but he could at least let Aziraphale know that he was here for him.

“Shut it, scumspawn,” hissed Poyel, “your boyfriend’s been taken down for his trial, and you’ll never get to see him again. I hope they chain you up here and leave you to rot.”

He had sensed the familiar signature of Aziraphale’s power once the soldiers and Michael had entered the tier of Heaven where the military establishment was situated. It had become more insistent when they reached the entrance to the bastion where it was clear he was going to be imprisoned. He was helpless but he kept shouting until Poyel slapped him sharply across the face.

“I said, _shut the fuck_ up, you filthy creature! Ugh, look what you made me do, I’ve _touched_ you. Get in there.”

He shoved Crowley through a heavy wooden door that led into the circular building. In the centre of the floor, there was the dark maw of a hole. It was impossible to see what it led to owing to the windowless gloom of the small round room. Poyel pushed him over to the hole and he teetered for a moment on its lip before falling feet first into the pit. His bound wings brushed the edge of the opening as he plummeted and he felt the nearness of walls before the shaft widened suddenly, a sense of space around his body becoming apparent briefly before he landed heavily on the hard brick floor of the structure. He had fallen on to his side and was winded and shaken, so he lay for a while, looking up at the circle of light he could see above him. Poyel’s face appeared briefly, silhouetted against the faint glow.

“See how you like it down there for a spell, you unclean beast.”

Then there was the noise of the door being locked and the clip of retreating footsteps and then nothing. Crowley groaned and shifted, examining his corporation for damage. He was bruised and there were probably ribs broken and possibly the arm he had fallen on, but he thought his legs were okay, which was a miracle in itself, given how little padding he had. He looked around the room he was in. There was no aperture in it other than the place he had fallen in from. The walls were featureless and rounded, plastered to a smoothness that rendered them unclimbable even for him in his snake form, had he been able to assume it. His sense of Aziraphale’s aura had retreated now. He was alone, in the dark, in a bottle dungeon in Heaven and no situation in his life had ever seemed so bleak.

***

Aziraphale had never seen this before, it was new. He remembered the hearings at the time of the Fall, the courtroom had been large but all those in attendance had just walked there. Now, he was on the most enormous moving staircase, leading to the ceremonial entrance, he had been told in a condescending voice by Cerviel, to the new Heavenly Court of Session. He stood, feeling small, on one of the steps, and watched as the stately process of the gently rumbling stairway took him up to the amphitheater at the top. He could see nebulae and star systems from his place as he travelled. Nearer to hand were huge statues situated at each side of the steps. The four Archangels were represented there along with various saints, all heroic attitudes and artfully placed drapery. Aziraphale looked at them critically and judged them in very poor taste indeed. The humans did that sort of thing with so much more nuance and delicacy, he decided, thinking of Michaelangelo and Guillaume Geefs. These were just plain nasty, the manifestation of what he could only conclude was the kind of vainglory that he thought most unbecoming in any member of the Host.

They reached the top and he was greeted by Remiel and Ramiel in their formal lawyers’ robes of dark purple. Cherubiel, Miniel and Cahathel were there too, all but the seraph splendidly dressed in formal attire. He mustered a small smile and inclined his head to the three of them as he was led to the rock upon which he was to stand as the accused. They reached it and he walked up its gentle slope with Cerviel at his side until they were both standing on its flat surface looking across at the Courtroom itself.

There was hardly anyone there. The white marble seats of the amphitheater were empty apart from those at the very front where Gabriel, Michael, Uriel and Sandalphon sat, all in their dress robes, looking polished and collected. The ornate throne on the judge’s dais was occupied by the seraph Sahaquiel in blinding white robes and a full bottomed wig. He acknowledged Aziraphale with a nod and looked out at the assembled angels, his hooded eyes unreadable in his fine, roman nosed face. Other than that, there were just the lawyers for the prosecution and two clerical angels, one poised with a tablet in their hands to take a transcript of proceedings, the other dressed as a Court Usher. It was not as bad as Crowley’s description of how he had been dealt with at his planned execution, but it was hardly a public trial. Aziraphale had not thought his spirits could descend any further but this situation proved him wrong, yet again. He had hoped that there might be some sort of fairness to proceedings, that this would be a forum in which evidence would be heard and he would be given a chance to make a statement to his fellow angels and vindicate himself, at least in part. Now he understood that the so called trial was just going to be a bald assertion of his guilt, hurried through, after which the Archangels would claim that due process had been carried out. It was a stitch-up, he realised, and he was effectively doomed. Justice would not be served by anything that happened here this day.

***

There was a clinking sound, a rattling. Crowley sat up in the darkness. The heavy door was shifting again, opening, slowly. Crowley could hear footsteps and his entire corporation went cold. They had returned to torture him and there was nothing he could do to stop it now. He didn’t think he had been there very long but he had zoned out a bit because of the pain in his ribs and arm. A shaven-headed face looked down at him from the hole in the roof of this rounded place of incarceration, its eyes twinkling.

“ ‘Ello mate, gonna get you outa there. Give us a mo’ I’m coming down.”

A rope appeared and descended to the floor, down it swarmed a bulky body dressed in white, blue and gold, feet thumping heavily on the floor beside Crowley as he reached the bottom. He manifested a small ball of light that gave a blue cast to the claustrophobic space.

“Who the fuck are you?” was all Crowley could manage.

“Nanael, here to ‘elp mate, don’t fret.”

This was Nanael’s version of ‘be not afraid’, something he hadn’t had much call to use during his army career, as he had never visited the Earth. He did know that he was supposed to say something like that if anyone looked at him in alarm.

The Principality had effectively gone rogue after the events of earlier that day in the central tier. He had not ever expected the army to be involved in actions that threatened unarmed members of the Host. Near the front of the crowd of demonstrators, he had not seen the cavalry angels and Michael arrive. He had become aware of a commotion and felt the crowd shift but had assumed that this was just part of the natural movement of the march. Then he had heard the distant fizz and whoosh of the fireballs after the shouting and had known instantly what was happening. Soldiers, his brothers, firing on a bunch of singing people wearing flowers. His golden blood had frozen in his veins and the whole thing had made him feel sick and then deeply angry. This was not what the army was supposed to be about.

Nanael had come partway towards disillusionment because of the loss of his partner and through his membership of OAF and association with Lamechiel and his friends, but there had still been a small spark in him of allegiance to his regiment and the army as a whole. This had winked out when he had watched the fireballs arc over the crowd after Michael’s orders at the demonstration. Now he was determined to follow his own conscience, and at the moment, this meant rescuing the demon from the confinement in which he had been placed, and expediting his attendance at the trial of Nanael’s fellow soldier. He had learned of Crowley from Lamechiel, who had told him of the scene outside the Archives and of the actions of the senior cherubs. Any hesitation he might have felt at assisting a demon had melted away when he had learned the full facts of his relationship with Aziraphale and his allegiance to the architects of the demonstration. There were other military personnel who felt similarly. The rest of them were up above in a little group, keeping an eye out while he was in the bastion seeing to Crowley. Nanael knelt next to the demon and looked him over as he lay on the floor, assessing him for visible injury.

“You okay mate? What damage is there?’

“Ribs, and my arm. Legs are okay, thank Christ.”

“Awright mate, mind the language. Let’s see.”

He ran his hand over Crowley’s side and then his arm and the demon felt a pulse of power as the bones shifted and resettled. The pain receded and Crowley flexed his arm, letting out an ‘oof’ of relief.

“Hmm,” Nanael breathed out, talking almost to himself, “what ‘ave we here? Oh right, standard bind, just take that off you and we can get movin’ ”

He murmured a few words and Crowley felt the constriction around his wings release entirely. He stood up, shook them out and folded them back into their other plane of existence, turning to face the stocky soldier, a questioning eyebrow raised as he looked into his open countenance.

“Right mate, gotta get you blendin’ in. Put this on and then come up the rope. We got a trial to get to.”

Crowley took the fatigues the soldier gave him, looking him up and down.

“Don’t know why you’re doing this, but ta very much.”

“ ‘Ad enough I ‘ave. Saw what ‘appened today. Anyway, c’mon, get your stuff together. See you topside mate.”

He shimmied up the rope with surprising ease for such a large angel. Crowley dispensed with the tattered robe and drew on the rather overlarge trousers and blouson top. His legs and arms stuck out of them comically while the excess of material at his middle bagged around him. He miracled it svelte and looked down at himself. Not bad. He added a gold scarf and a pair of mirror sunglasses, enchanting them so that the eyes of anyone looking would glance off him for a moment. It would do. If he was going to court, he didn’t want to look like a complete dick in front of Aziraphale.

Crowley insinuated his way up the rope and joined the group of soldiers outside the bastion. Nanael looked at him, rolled his eyes and gave him a white beret.

“Fancy fucker ain't yer? Shove yer ‘air in there and let’s get on. Follow me and keep yer gob shut.”

Crowley did as he was bidden to hide the distinctive flame red of his hair and they moved off at a quick pace, the soldiers marched, Crowley loping alongside them. He held his breath when they approached the perimeter of the military compound but the soldiers were waved though without having to show any identification. There was a short walk along a broad paved way and then they were at the foot of the most extraordinary staircase Crowley had ever seen.

“What the fuck? Oh shitting hell, look at the state of those statues, eurgh, that's just awful.”

***

“The military court is hereby in session for the court-martial of the Principality Aziraphale. All rise.”

The Usher’s voice was loud as she read from the scroll, giving details of the various crimes that Aziraphale was accused of. He stood, stony-faced, and listened. Most of it was technically true, but he could not help but notice that there were other things included that had happened on Earth while he was assigned there that could not reasonably be interpreted as deviations from any kind of military code. He had not been assigned to Earth as a soldier, but as a Guardian, something that was supposed to be very much part of a Principality’s function. The trial was clearly rigged. He sighed and closed his eyes. The high collar of his dress shirt was digging into his chin and he felt uncomfortable and alone.

He became aware of raised voices on the periphery of his hearing but he tuned them out when the Usher’s voice was raised, asking for silence and calling for the lawyers for the Defence to make their statement. He opened his eyes as Remiel stepped up to the podium reserved for their use.

“I Remiel, lawyer for the Defence in this case move that the trial be declared null and void on the grounds that the accused does not fall under the jurisdiction of this court.”

What he had been going to say was swallowed by the immediate cries of ‘objection!’ from the lawyer for the Prosecution and general exclamations from all of the Archangels and Cerviel. Sahaquiel leaned forward in his throne and cleared his throat, raising his hand to call for silence. Everyone ignored him, the lawyers meeting each other in the middle of the floor of the court, the Prosecution team backed by the Archangels and the Defence by the two cherubs and Cahethal. All the angels were shouting at once, papers were being brandished and books waved about.

It was at this point that Crowley and the soldiers managed to push past the two guard angels at the entrance to the court and gain access to the main arena. Crowley was staggered by the size and austerity of the place, and its emptiness. He had been expecting crowds of spectators but the seats were unoccupied. Everything was blinding white and on an enormous scale, dwarfing the players on its stage. There was a sunken central area with a few tables where papers and books were resting. The Judges dais was a huge white rock where he sat on an ornate throne of white and gold. The rock was set in a gap in the seating and towered above it. To the right and left were similar smooth blocks were the lawyers were evidently meant to stand to cross examine witnesses and give their speeches. Between these and to the back was the smaller podium where the accused was made to stand and opposite this was the witness box of a similar size. The jury rock was placed in a position from which those called could see all the other principles in each action, niches with misericord style seats for up to eight jurors were carved in its white stone face. Nanael hastened forward and joined in the fracas, bellowing in his soldier’s voice something about the army demanding the right to see the trial and bear witness.

Crowley swung his head around wildly, hoping see Aziraphale but not able to spot him initially. Then he realised he was looking right at him. He staggered back, horrified, and grief rampaged through his mind as he took in the figure, standing so straight on the rock next to a soldier with ridiculous sideburns and a sour expression. He raised his hand to his mouth and felt his eyes grow wet.

Aziraphale looked so small. His curls, his lovely, fluffy cloud-white curls had been shorn off. He was in the formal Mess Dress of the Heavenly army, the kilt, blue tailcoat and white waistcoat and dress shirt topped off with a dark blue bow tie. The clothing delineated a much altered angel, his shoulders were as broad and muscular as ever, possibly more so, if anything, but the comfortable rounded shape had gone, to be replaced by a small waist and hips. His thighs were not properly visible under the kilt, but he looked less bulky there also. The calves looked the same, but there was little else that he recognised. Aziraphale’s face was bone white, the pretty lips had no colour at all and the eyes were dull and sad. Lines that seemed to denote suffering bisected his brow and cut between his nose and mouth. He was so still. He had not realised how much Aziraphale’s movement defined him. Even when standing he usually rocked and dipped, his breaths as he spoke visible as shifting shoulders and little swivels. His bobs and wiggles when he was pleased or animated were an integral part of him, and one that Crowley found dear and lovely. This stillness was heartbreaking. Crowley stared and felt his breath hitching and his throat closing up. What the fuck had they done to his lovely angel?

The melee in the middle of the court room appeared to have broken up. The Judge was shouting to the Prosecution lawyer to let the Defence have their say. Ramiel submitted a sheaf of paperwork to the Usher who walked round to the Judges dais and began the arduous climb up the steps at its side to pass them to Sahaquiel. Remiel continued the speech he had begun that had been so precipitously interrupted.

“It has been found, that according to Books of the Old Lore, scrutinised at the Akashic Archives two days ago, to wit, edict one hundred and seven b, that deals with the proper designation of angel standing, that the Defendant’s current status is in question. The provision quoted clearly lays down the specific steps that must be taken with regard to disciplinary action in cases involving the Cherubim, none of which were followed in the case of the Defendant here. It can be shown, in the light of this, in conjunction with sub-section two hundred and three and the clause that appends to it, that it is not lawful for anyone under the rank of seraph to oversee the demotion of a cherub to any lower choir. In consequence it follows that Aziraphale’s demotion to Principality by the Lord Michael in the year four thousand and four before the birth of our Lord’s Son and Saviour of Humanity, was an illegal act and cannot be allowed to stand. Ergo, this court has no jurisdiction over the Cherub Aziraphale and the present action should rightfully be erased from the record.”

There was a lot more shouting after this while Sahaquiel read through the relevant papers and heard other petitions from the lawyer representing the Archangels. Finally he rose to his feet and made a statement.

“By the powers vested in me, I find that the court-martial of the former Principality Aziraphale cannot be allowed to proceed owing to the fact that he no longer falls under the jurisdiction of this court.”

Miniel clapped her hands at this point and the soldiers cheered. Sahaquiel held up his hand again and continued.

“However, I have taken into consideration the application of the representatives of the Lords Michael and Gabriel and find that there is still the matter of the various accusations of Treason of which the Cherub Aziraphale stands accused. Therefore, the trial will be reconvened as soon as possible as a Court of General Session Trial by Peers according to the usual conventions. Until that time, the Defendant shall remain in my chambers and may only have access to his legal team and Choir Representatives, whom I understand to be the angels Cherubiel and Miniel here. The Court must stand down. You may all depart.”

There was a general hubbub at this point, Aziraphale’s supporters hugging each other and the lawyers continuing their earnest discussions. Aziraphale himself stood stock still his face angled towards the floor slightly, a look of extreme puzzlement and concentration occupying his features. He raised his head and seemed to come back to himself, eyes scanning the people in front of him until they came to rest on the demon in disguise. His face changed, slowly, the eyes brightening and cheeks flushing with a little colour. Crowley, who had never let his eyes leave that dear face, looked around to note if anyone was watching him and, seeing that everyone else was engaged in conversation, pulled his glasses down his nose and looked over them at the angel, winking quickly before pushing them up again. Aziraphale’s face relaxed, his mouth rounding into an ‘o’ of surprise briefly, and then there dawned a brightness that stole over it, the eyes narrowed and mouth upturned into a smile like the coming of a summer sunrise. Crowley smiled back, his lips trembling a little as they quirked upwards. For a few seconds, as the angel silently mouthed the demon’s name, there was nobody in the courtroom but the two of them. They held each other’s gaze as Aziraphale was led away from the dock area to walk with Ramiel, Remiel and the two cherubs to Sahaquiel’s chambers. Crowley watched him go and then ducked down amongst the soldiers again, determined to stay in the amphitheatre with them until the new trial proceedings could commence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional angels for this chapter as we attend:
> 
> The Trial
> 
> The Judge - Sahaquiel (Seraph) [Angel Prince of the Fourth Heaven]
> 
> Prosecution Lawyer - Rizoel (Seraph) [angel with the power to thwart demons]
> 
> Defence Lawyers - Ramiel (Seraph) [angel who oversees souls for judgement]  
> Remiel (Seraph) [angel who leads souls for judgement]
> 
> As the Heavenly soldier angels wear kilts as part of their battle-dress, I have taken the liberty of dressing Aziraphale in the Mess Dress of the Scottish Regiments for his trial, with some minor colour adjustments. I am a Scot, I live in Scotland, so I get to do this nonsense.
> 
> Thank you if you are still reading or if you have just started. I have nearly finished this fic despite both existential and ontological crises. I am probably an aardvark. Let me know what you think. If you are reading, I love you and wish you well.


	18. Owing to the interest aroused by this case, there is an unusually large audience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations are made for Aziraphale’s trial to commence. There are unexpected attendees including one angel who hasn’t been seen in Heaven for a very long time, along with personnel from the Other Place. Crowley does some Thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry people, you need some background before we get on with things. I think it is quite entertaining as we see people arrive for the hearing, some of whom are most unexpected.
> 
> Content warning for misgendering by the Arch-douche Gabriel (who else?).
> 
> Thanks are once again due to my superlative Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) and my friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) for late night chat and moral support.
> 
> Thank everyone who is doing so for reading. As ever, comments are most welcome and mean a great deal, each one makes my day and I always read them more than once. 
> 
> It is a bonkers world, stay safe and have as much fun and spread as much love as you can.

It was dark, all manner of things chittered and warbled in the undergrowth. If they raised their head, they could see the glow of eyes occasionally through the thick foliage. They didn’t raise their head for some time, lost as they were in the after effects of the ritual that had consumed them. Earth really was remarkable, they mused, so much to experience, so many things to learn. There were fleeting lights and shadows, reflections and echoes discernible in their sight and hearing and it was not altogether clear which were real and which were their imaginings in the grip of the concoction they had taken. There had been ceremonial words spoken and then their human corporation had wholly succumbed. Above it, their true celestial form had watched, engrossed. Now the feelings were slackening off and they were coming back to themself. It was at this moment that it appeared, shimmering out of the twilight of the forest that surrounded them, a blindingly white envelope edged with gold, their True Name on the front in an elegant swirl of sigils. It manifested in midair and floated down lazily to land upon their crossed legs in their threadbare cotton shorts.

Raphael had been in Peru for some time, they had found a shyly cautious welcome from the Uarina people that had transformed into something like friendship when their leader had picked up on the angel’s humble and earnest demeanour. They had learned much there and their stay had culminated in the offer to take part in the ayahuasca ceremony, conducted by the respected shaman of the group with whom they had been staying. Raphael had been taking a very long sabbatical on Earth, keeping away from places where they might be observed by other angels. They had made it their mission after the War and the Fall to use their influence to assist the progression of human medicine. At present they were finding out more about hallucinogens with the intention of using the knowledge gained by so doing to influence mainstream thought in other cultures. If this meant spending time in a pleasant state of intoxication, then so much the better as far as they were concerned. They very much enjoyed altered states of consciousness, finding that such experiences made them more open to learning and spiritual development.

They opened the envelope, noting the gold wax it had been sealed with and examined the contents, their eyebrows rising slowly skyward as they fully comprehended what the instruction was and what it meant. They braided their waist-long hair to tidy it away for travelling, retrieved their staff from where it had ended up under a bush, and sought out the shaman, thanking him and then the women and men in the little group that had offered them such warmth and hospitality. With a raised hand, they strode away, leaving a blessing behind them in hope that the community would continue to be protected from the relentless depredations of big business that constantly hungered to swallow up such gentle people in the ruthlessness of greedy capitalistic endeavour.

Raphael had not liked Heaven after the War, and had railed under the strictures of the new administration there. The angel of healing had seen nothing that they wished to remain for, and had left, not saying a word to any of their fellow archangels. They had loved counselling the two humans in the first garden and had taken the decision to escape and expend their energies on the new planet. Vaguely worded reports were received from the rogue archangel from time to time but otherwise, they refused to engage with the other members of their cohort, preferring the company of humans and the varied vistas of the world to the bleak emptiness of what Heaven had become. This new summons came as a shock to them. Raphael had ignored the trumpet call to the final battle, opting to stay hidden in Africa, hoping that the whole unpleasant scenario would just go away, which was their default strategy for most troubling situations. They had been extremely relieved when it had done just that and had carried on travelling, taking on the appearance of whatever kind of human the local populations where they visited would find the least threatening.

Raphael’s love for the human race was similar in its intensity to both Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s but they were unaware of this, having taken pains to avoid the company of all other supernatural beings (save for a few trolls in Scandinavia and some fae in Ireland) for as long as they had been on the Earth. They had not wanted to get involved in any way in the politics of Heaven once they had made their decision to leave the place. Now Raphael had received a summons that they could not refuse, obliging them, finally, to return from whence they had come so many years previously. They walked through the rainforest changing the shape and size of their presentation as they went, stopping when they came to a clearing. They stood in a patch of sunlight for a moment, taking in the cool of the morning then snapped their fingers and vanished, causing a small flock of parrotlets to take off in some surprise.

***

It was another shitty day in this shitty place. Dagon had vaporised a couple of Erics already that morning for merely getting on her nerves with their chatter. The Lord of the Files and Master of Torments sat at her desk, smoking and fuming. Her filing was all screwed up since the failed apocalypse, the infernal denizens of Hell having been notoriously lax in getting their paperwork done properly since that time. It turned out that, for the demon population, the net result of the world not ending and work going on as usual was a lamentably laissez faire attitude to completing the proper forms and submitting them timeously. On top of that, the notoriously slack Nine Circles Direct Labour Organisation had only become infinitely slower in picking up the repair manifests that were supposedly there to direct their endeavours, with the net result that everything that was broken, stayed that way, interminably. The surly demons in high-vis vests who ran the operation had only become more taciturn and less communicative of late, it was all very irritating. Hell appeared to be suffering from an organisation-wide case of the doldrums as a direct result of the let down over Armageddon.

There was a huge algae green stain spreading across the ceiling of Dagon’s office and something sticky was dripping on to her desk. Things were worse in the records store where thick, oily tarpaulins were now draped over the top of the racking to stop whatever it was getting to the actual files and gumming their pages together. Hell was supposed to be chaos for the damned but the administrative offices were not intended to be in any way as disorganised. ‘ _Curse that flashy twat Crowley’_ , thought Dagon, ‘ _and the fucking horse or whatever it was he rode in on’_. She took a last drag on her cigarillo and crushed the butt into the ashtray stuck to her desk that sported the sunny motto ‘There’s no ‘U’ in TEAM’, blowing the smoke out of the corner of her mouth as she surveyed her sticky workspace. ‘ _Fuck this oh so very much for a game of fucking soldiers’,_ she thought to herself, grimly.

The door swung in with its usual sinister creak. All the doors in Hell creaked in a way that suggested that they were much heavier and less well-oiled than was actually the case, it was important to keep the correct ambience, they had a reputation to maintain. Beelzebub strode into Dagon’s office with a piece of heavy white paper clutched in their hand.

“Thizz hazz just materializzed on my dezzk,” they buzzed out. There was an expression of puzzlement tinged with what might have been fear on their face as they slapped the sheet of paper on to Dagon’s workspace directly in front of her. She defaulted to her usual toothy grin at the sight of her boss’s worried face and peeled the heavy, embossed paper off the tacky surface of the wood to take a look at it. It was a summons directed to both of them, clearly named in the writ, to attend a formal trial by peers in Heaven of all places.

“What does this mean, babes?” she said to the diminutive figure in front of her.

“Fucked if I know,” responded the Prince of Hell, chewing their pale lower lip, “what worriezz me is who zzent it.”

“Won’t it be that prick Gabe’s office, they usually handle this kind of thing, don’t they?”

“No, that arsehole uzzes ponczy purple zztationery, thizz is zzomething elzze, it makezz my handz itch. Feel it, therezz zzome power behind it.”

Dagon rose from her desk and crossed over to Beelzebub, placing her shimmering rainbow hued and scaly arms around them. Her gills flared as she lay her face close to the warm blush of Beelzebub’s scarred cheek. She knew they only buzzed this much when they were worried, and that they would not ask but that physical comfort placated them. This was their old dance and defined whatever the thing was that they had between them. Nothing was ever spoken of but she serviced the other being’s needs for affection and physical release whenever it was necessary. Only she knew this side of the fierce creature she now soothed with soft strokes down their arms and back. She had calmed the other being after Gabriel’s recent disrespect to their person and, once their office had been destroyed in their rage, she had cast a spell to make it whole again and listened to their ranting, wiping their angry tears away with a gentleness that any other demon who knew her would have found difficult to believe.

“It’s nothing we’ve done, oh magnificent one, it just says we’re there to witness. It is the Session Court, probably something to do with those stick-up-the-arse seraphs, you know how they love a bit of legal bollocks. We’ll get our glad-rags on, babes, show those fuckwits some Hell-style.”

“Yezz, you are right, azz ever, faithful fishy friend of mine,” sighed Beelzebub, disengaging from the embrace, “Right, enough of this zzoppy zztuff. Zzummon an Eric, we need zzomeone to take notes, in fact, letzz have two of them, they can zztand in front of us in cazze any of those zzuperannuated turkeyz up there get handy with the zzmiting. I know we’ve worked with them lately, but I don’t truzzt those archangelzz in any way.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” said Dagon, returning to her desk and lifting the cracked rotary phone that sat on it. She paused, finger over the dial, “talking of arseholes, have you heard from that dipshit Crowley lately?”

“Had a report in a few dayzz ago about zome of his usual nonsenze, zomething about the transport links near where he livezz. Don’t worry, there won’t be any trouble again from that quarter. I fixed him for good and all. Now, get the clerical zzupport zzorted and slide your zzucculent arse into zzomething impressive and I’ll zee you in the lobby.”

With that, the senior demon left the room, walking back to their quarters ruminating on which of their suits they would wear for their forthcoming trip upstairs.

Dagon sighed and lifted the receiver again, they needed to look out that new ruff they had bought, and perhaps the sequined fishtail skirt, with the matching boob tube. One did like to look one’s best, after all.

***

Michael was furious. Her face was white, her nostrils flaring as she ranted to Gabriel in his office, pacing before him as he sat in his chair, his eyes dark as she fueled his rage with her own.

“Those _fucking_ cherubs,” she shouted, throwing her hands up in the air, “that Miniel, who the _Hell_ does she think she is saying what she said about my wings…eeeurrrgh,” she bellowed inarticulately. She stopped pacing and stood with her hands on her hips looking directly at Gabriel who sat, tight lipped on his swivel chair.

“What the fuck do we do now?”

“Our lawyer, Rizoel, tells me that we have every chance of success with this trial, Michael, I know it is annoying, I am angry myself, but this shouting really does not help. Try to control yourself, sweetheart.”

“Don’t you _sweetheart_ me, you patronising bastard. This is all your fault. We should have just dealt with him quietly like I said but, oh no, you wanted a proper trial. Make an example of him, you said, it’ll be fine, you said. Now look where we are.”

Michael folded her arms across her medaled chest and looked down at Gabriel.

“You had better be right about this. We need this victory Gabriel, you’ve seen how agitated the Host is right now, and I foresee serious trouble if this doesn’t go our way. Speak to that lawyer and drum into him that he must win or the consequences will be grievous for him.”

“Don’t be a dummy, Michael, I can’t just coerce a seraph, you know how they get.”

His voice mellowed and he got up from his seat and placed an arm around the angry figure of his colleague, hoping by his touch to placate her.

“We’ve got all the evidence we need, there’s no defence in all the spheres that will get that little douchebag off the charges we have lined up against him. This is just a setback, we’re bound to win.”

“Don’t touch me Gabriel!” she pulled away from his circling arm, her face creasing with disdain, “and don’t treat me like a fool, I’m not one of your little acolytes you can fob off with one of your smarmy sermons. Don’t you see, if this goes wrong it could mean the end of everything for us? Speak with the lawyer, make sure he knows what to say and hit that little nuisance with everything we’ve got. It’s imperative that he is found guilty. Once that’s done, I’ll deal with him and he’ll get what he deserves. Then we’ll sort out the rest of this mess, together, and with extreme prejudice.”

She walked to the door and pulled it open as Gabriel took his seat once more, steepling his fingers together as he regarded her.

“I’m going for a lie down, I have a headache. Get it sorted Gabriel. Everything we have worked for depends on what happens now.”

Gabriel sighed as he heard the door slam, and he stretched his body out in his desk chair, strong arms reaching above him causing a few audible pops as he realigned the long spine of his corporation. Michael was always difficult when she wasn’t getting her own way. He was vaguely glad he hadn’t asked about her hormone levels, his groin was only just feeling back to normal after the last depredations upon it. He sat back and pulled his notes towards him. There was something he had been considering as an addition to the list of charges after having looked through the Earth Observation files on Aziraphale one more time. He made a note in the margin, he would bring it up if necessary. No need to trouble the lawyer with it for the time being, he was not sure how well going down that route would sit with the seraph.

***

Aziraphale was aware that the chair in the Judge’s chambers was the most comfortable thing he had sat on in months, but everything else around him was a blur. People were talking, the lawyers he had to represent him along with the man who was to speak as his main counsel were deep in consultation with each other. Aziraphale could hear Miniel’s voice too as she chatted with Cherubiel about the success of the first part of their strategy. He felt the touch of a large warm hand in his shoulder and looked up. Cherubiel’s kind face was above him, saying something about going to speak to Crowley. He had asked the senior angel earlier if it would be possible for him to go out and relay a brief message after explaining Crowley’s current disguise. Cherubiel had laughed with a certain fondness and agreed. Aziraphale smiled up at the other angel with genuine gratitude and nodded, feeling the hand squeeze his shoulder in encouragement before it was lifted away again.

All Aziraphale could think about was Crowley, how his face had looked, that smile and the flash of those beautiful amber eyes. He could feel the link between them still, humming away in his chest like the wingbeats of some eager moth seeking the moon. Aziraphale’s rational mind knew that they were both quite likely to be utterly doomed, but there remained that hopeful piece of him that believed in other possibilities, that still had faith in a brighter future. Since the announcement of the Apocalypse, there had always been a part of him that had believed what happened to both of them had to be a part of some larger plan and an expression of Her will. Despite everything that he had been through, this conviction that they might be small pieces in some larger design refused to die. Beside that was the euphoria engendered in him by the splendid understanding that Crowley had come for him, and was there to support him, that however dark their immediate fate might be, they were in close proximity and would face it together.

After all the time he had spent alone, thinking, he was sure now, entirely sure about how he felt, and where his loyalties lay. It had been a struggle for him at first to fully comprehend just exactly how misplaced his allegiance had been. Even though he was grateful to the angels who were supporting him here, his primary connection lay with Crowley and the Earth. The demon’s sudden appearance in the court, whatever endeavours he had been through to achieve it, only served to strengthen the depth of both his love and resolve to stand firm on the side of whatever it was they had between them. Smiling, he responded to what Miniel was saying to him and cast a grateful look over to the sombrely clad figure of the soul who had been quietly delighted at the request to be his spokesperson. Aziraphale was convinced that he had chosen wisely.

***

Crowley was seated at the very front of the auditorium opposite the dock, hidden amongst the group of soldier angels, who were rapidly becoming some of his favourite people, engaged in chorus with them singing a ribald song about the nature of sergeants, who were all, without exception, according to the lyrics, bastards. Over the last couple of hours while they waited for the new trial to start, the demon had been accepted as an honorary member of OAF and had heard all about the organisation of the demonstration before he had arrived in Heaven. Like Aziraphale, he was extremely nervous about both being discovered in his present disguise and what was likely to happen to his angel at the end of the legal process. Even though this remained in his mind, there was a large part of him that was simply glad to be there and close to Aziraphale. He knew that if he got the chance to free his angel, he would take it, but for the present moment, he was prepared to stay incognito within the audience and see what transpired, knowing that any attempt made under the current circumstances, even with the support of his soldier friends, was likely to end in failure. He heard a familiar voice behind him and turned round in some alarm to find himself looking into the familiar face of Cherubiel.

“My dear fellow, we were so worried about you. It is good indeed to see you here.”

Crowley was about to explain when the blond angel interrupted him.

“Don’t worry my friend, tell me of your adventures later. Your Aziraphale is pleased that you are here and wished to send you greeting. I am come to tell you that.”

Crowley left the group of soldiers for a moment, climbing over to the tier above him where Cherubiel stood so that he could speak with them over the noise of the singing.

“Just one thing before you go,” said Crowley, who had been thinking about this when he had been in the prison, “Michael, when she was talking about his…his wings, she said he was a cherub, I didn’t know. And he was demoted, because of what I did. He never said…”

“Oh, that is what is on your mind?” Cherubiel looked him up and down, considering, “you care so much, do you not, my friend? Worry not, I spoke of it with him at the time. He was glad to get the posting and did not care about his status then. He was so keen to get back to Earth. He told me it was because he loved it there, and I believe that was partly true, but thinking on it later, I realised that some of the reason must have been because of who he had met since I had last seen him.”

Crowley blushed at this, taking the inference, and Cherubiel continued.

“He never blamed you, my dear fellow, said you didn’t come into the garden through the gate. He’s no fool, Crowley, he knew you were only doing what you had been directed to. I believe now that it suited those who chose to demote him that he leave Heaven, and he knows that. It was never about you, not really. And he welcomed it, which was good, because it was for the best wasn’t it, for all of us, in the end?”

***

The amphitheatre had been extended hugely to accommodate the mass of beings who wished to attend the trial. All of the Host and every soul in Heaven had received their invitation at the same time, and the Ushers and Clerks who were responsible for the place were mystified to find it so suddenly enormously increased in size. It was unimaginably vast, concentric circles of white marble seating radiating out from the arena at its centre where the massive rocks stood waiting for the major players in this unprecedented legal drama. A major reconfiguration of reality had been wrought to allow it to take-up the space it currently occupied within the dimension in which it sat and there were repercussions relating to this action, echoes that spread like ripples through every layer of the space/time continuum.

***

Greg finished up for the day and rubbed his eyes, leaving his desk and heading out to where he had parked his car. It had been a strange one. He had worked at the Space Telescope Science Institute for five years now, ever since he had finished his Doctorate at Princeton. It had always been his ambition to work with Hubble, and now, here he was, living his own personal dream. However, today, nothing much was making sense. He still felt weird when he got home. It had definitely been there, what looked like a new galaxy in a relatively sparsely occupied sector of space. The data had come in, he had checked it, looked again, and it had apparently winked out of existence. He had phoned Goddard and requested that they verify the co-ordinates and reposition, but what he had definitely seen in all its glory had simply vanished. He had reported it to Mike, his supervisor, and other Technical Managers and astronomers had clustered around his monitor to look at the figures. When he had tried to bring them up again they appeared to have never been there in the first place, the record was consistent and unremarkable. There had been a lot of head scratching and people had started to look at him oddly and then Mike had said something about stress and overwork and sent him home. Greg looked at the print-out he had made, creasing the paper slightly in his hand as he stood in the lounge of his neat little house in Baltimore. His wife, Mandy, brought him the drink she had offered to make for him when she had seen his tired face, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you honey. Say, do I look cracked?”

“Not to me, darlin’, why, are you?”

She smiled and kissed him properly. Apart from that odd moment, it had been a lovely day, everyone had been in a really good mood and he had received confirmation of further funding for his research proposal in the mail when he had arrived home. He crumpled the paper in his hand, kissed his wife again and resolved to think nothing more about the whole thing.

***

On another plane, the huge spiral of the court arena drifted lazily in space. Crowley looked across at the endless glittering progression of the stars that formed its backdrop, their coruscation back-lighting clouds of gas and the shadows formed by black holes, their hulking shapes betraying the presence of antimatter. Planets turned and solar flares burned and faded. He could see some of the stars he had made from where he was sitting if he looked above the tiers of seating. Having the opportunity to see them again put him in an uncharacteristically contemplative mood. While he waited for the trial to begin he mused on what it all might mean, why he and Aziraphale had been brought to this. None of it made much sense to him. He hadn’t ever usually been prone to this sort of introspection simply because the contemplation of the reasons behind his condition had been exquisitely painful to him ever since his Fall. The threatened end of the world had prompted some existential questioning after the heartbreaking argument with the angel at Battersea Park, but usually, he was an optimistic being, for a demon, and just got on with his life, existing in the moment and making the best of the hand he had been dealt. He knew that Aziraphale would say that it was all part of some grand design. This notion had been the subject of some of their most heated altercations since the beginning. There were times he had almost disliked Aziraphale for his determination to keep faith in something bigger than all of them. He had shrunk away instinctively from the angel’s stubborn insistence on what he reiterated as ‘ineffable’ through the seemingly senseless acts visited on supernatural and mortal beings alike by a God that he was only able to view as capricious at best, vicious at worst.

Of course it was Aziraphale’s nature, as an angel, to think that way, he couldn’t really help himself, and even when Crowley found him infuriating, he did have an understanding of that fact. Aziraphale was theoretically designed to be a being of faith and love just as Crowley was fated to be unforgivable, a wretched thing cast out from the particular love of God and other kinds of love in general. Except that wasn’t actually true for either of them. Aziraphale did love, yes, he was full of it, it lit him up sometimes, the love he carried for the world and everything in it, and Crowley adored him for it, deep down. But it was often too particular to be an angelic kind of love, and he was capable of other feelings too, and Crowley loved him just as much for those. That was the nub of the matter, Crowley was a demon and he loved, his angel and other things.

Just what was it all for, then, that they had been made this way? Why had Aziraphale been put to this suffering now and all the other distress he had experienced during his life? And why had he, Crowley, been doomed to endure the constant pain of a love he was forbidden to express, even if it was requited by the angel? The love he was sure now that they shared remained forbidden and he would never be free to own it or receive it back. He wished he knew it was for a purpose, it would have made all of it so much easier to bear.

The court amphitheatre was filling up now. Crowley watched as a steady stream of angels, many of whom still wore blossom pinned to their clothing, poured in to the arena, taking their seats and looking about them. They were joined by the souls of men, women and children who appeared to be arriving from another entrance across from Crowley. They all wore dress from their own time periods, making the scene very colourful and varied as people in robes, togas and chitons mingled with those in doublets and hosen, dresses and suits of all shapes, materials and colours, wigs and complex headdresses and all manner of hats. Every example of the art of tailors and seamstresses, milliners and shoemakers were represented here from all the countries of the world.

Crowley stopped his musing when he felt a sensation familiar from over six thousand years ago wash over him. He knew that aura, it was unmistakable. He turned his head and looked to where the angels were still streaming in form the main entrance at the top of the staircase. It was Raphael, the lost one, there they were in all of their beauty, never forgotten from Eden.

Raphael had always been a shape shifter, taking whatever form suited the occasion they were in. Now they were tall with strikingly dark skin against which their silver hair, streaked with a metallic looking blue and held in place with a gold headband, shone out like a beacon. They were dressed in a beautiful dark green robe, and in their hand was their staff, the snake carvings upon it seeming to twist and writhe. Crowley remembered them from the garden, their kindly words as they counselled the first humans had drifted through the warm air over to where he had lain hidden to listen, coiled up in the long grass. Raphael had been gentle and Crowley had heard them speak with warmth to Aziraphale on the few occasions he had witnessed their meetings. He knew from talking with Aziraphale on the rare occasions that he would speak of the goings on in Heaven, that Raphael had not been seen there since the Garden had been closed to everyone and placed in stasis. It was assumed that they were either out in space or on the Earth somewhere. Crowley had certainly never encountered them during his perambulations and Aziraphale had never spoken of seeing them either. Wherever they had been, they had evidently been summoned back for this occasion. Crowley wondered if Gabriel or Michael had insisted or if the instruction had come from higher up. These thoughts were pushed out of his mind when he heard the sound of a bugle call and Gabriel marched into the courtroom followed directly by Michael, Uriel and Sandalphon. They were accompanied by two Court Ushers and Rizoel in his dark purple gown. Evidently proceedings were about to begin.

***

Gabriel turned his head and caught sight of Raphael, who sauntered over and took their place to Gabriel’s right in the front row of seats facing the rock where Aziraphale would be appearing once the hearing started. They looked along the row at the other Archangels and raised their hand.

“Hi my dudes.”

Their voice was just as the archangel remembered, soft and low, vibrating on the edge of laughter as it always had been. They wore the same infuriating smile that had driven Gabriel demented all those years ago, just before they had left and disappeared.

“Long time no see, eh?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” said Gabriel, in an irritated tone of voice. This was another complication that he just didn’t need. Raphael had always been a bit of a loose cannon even before the War. Gabriel knew he couldn’t count on their support in any matter, particularly this one. Raphael’s grin became a little wider as they looked Gabriel in the eye. He immediately felt overdressed and rather ridiculous in his ceremonial robes. Even though Raphael was in their formal dress, it was simple and stylish. Raphael had always made him feel like this, he remembered, which was why he hadn’t asked too many questions when his sibling had simply stopped manifesting their presence amongst the spheres.

“Hey Gabe, got a summons, looked really heavy so I thought I’d better show. Don’t say it, I know, it’s really cool to see me, right?”

Gabriel huffed, trying to compose a response to this when Uriel interrupted.

“Where have you been, you bloody reprobate? Left us all up here while you were bumming around the universe no doubt. I don’t understand why you haven’t been officially reprimanded yet. You always were a lazy fucker, and we’ve had to pick up the slack, so yes, thanks for that.”

“Oh wow, Urie, cool it sweet cheeks, you’re really harshing my mellow here with all those negative vibes.”

“Don’t bother talking to him, you know what he’s like,” cut in the severe voice of Michael, “you haven’t changed one bit Raph, still quite the wind-up merchant aren’t you?”

Raphael regarded her with a cool look that combined a certain wariness along with their usual desire to provoke. They knew her of old and could see that she was operating on a very short fuse. They took a breath and decided to risk a little more cheek. These people couldn’t touch them and, as far as they could see, all four of them had only become more autocratic during the time that they had been away.

“Mikey, honey, it’s good to see you too. Yeah, brings it all back, why I left,” they turned to address their other sibling, “hey, Sandy, haven’t you got anything to say to your brother, one of your classic lines, mmmh?”

Sandalphon looked at Gabriel as if asking for some clue as to how it should handle this, and seeing nothing helpful, it opted for its default approach, its nasal voice filled with its usual menace.

“Hello Raphael, don’t push your luck, you’re not above a good smiting if you don’t toe the line.”

“Wow, classy. Don’t pull your punches Sanders, tell me how you really feel.”

Sandalphon ground its teeth and leered at Raphael, who continued to stare at it, an insolent smile on their face until the smaller angel looked away.

Raphael looked around the court arena, watching the arrival of more angels. The stream of bodies was slowing to a trickle now and most of the seats were filled.

“So, run it by me guys, why are we putting little Aziraphale through all this again? No, don’t tell me, he didn’t come up to your ridiculous standards of perfection in some way, was that it? See, that’s why I packed up my rucksack and left you people to it. You were all getting ridiculously heavy up here and it was such a massive bummer, I had to make tracks. He’s such a sweet guy, what did he actually do?”

Gabriel turned to face the questioning face of Raphael at his side, his eyes burning.

“That little fuckwit is guilty of treason, going against Her will by getting in the way of six thousand years of planning, preventing the end times and consorting with one of our Adversaries. This kind of behaviour cannot be tolerated, even someone as louche as you must see that, Raphael.”

“Oh, I don’t think I have to do anything like agreeing with you, _Gabe_. I think I’ll be making my own mind up when I hear the evidence, and most likely, I think I’ll be going to Aziraphale and shaking his hand, maybe we can go for a drink together after this huge downer of an occasion is over,” they reached into a pocket in their robe and produced a cone shaped object with card at one end, placed it in their mouth and started patting their robe, looking for their lighter, “anyone got a light here?”

“You can’t smoke that here!” Uriel’s voice was shrill with outrage.

“No? You think not? I think I need something to get me through the screeds of total bullshit that is going to be fired at someone that I really like, so I’ll smoke what I want, none of you is the boss of me. Chill Uriel, you’re far too uptight, you should try some of this and get that stick from out of your rear end. And that goes for all of you bellends.”

With that, they sat back and lit their cone, the fragrant smoke drifted past Gabriel who made a point of waving it away with ostentatious gestures of his hand. Michael signaled to him and he bent forward to hear her better.

“Can’t we do something about him? Why is he here?”

“He got the same summons that everyone else has had, nobody seems to know where these writs have come from. I am waiting for Metatron to arrive, he might be able to shed some light on the situation. We can outvote him if it comes to it. For now, I guess we just have to put up with him.”

Michael frowned and seemed to be about to protest but Gabriel continued before she could make her views known.

“Leave it for the moment Michael, let’s just concentrate on getting through this.”

She rolled her eyes and sat back, gritting her teeth with frustration. Everything to do with this situation appeared to be getting completely out of hand. She didn’t realise at that point that things were just about to become much, much worse.

***

Crowley, sitting amidst the group of soldiers once again, became aware of a very loud commotion coming from the entranceway. He could see that Raphael was looking across as well and starting to laugh.

To say that the appearance of a Prince and a Lord of Hell in the Heavenly courtroom caused a stir would be an understatement. Beelzebub was elbowing their way through the angels still walking towards the entranceway to the amphitheatre, buzzing at them to _get out of their fucking way_. Dagon was close behind them, causing little screams of anguish from frightened Thrones and Powers as she grinned in their faces, showing her rows of needle-sharp teeth. Against the background of the white marble and the pale cloth of the angels’ robes, Beelzebub looked like a filthy ink-stain on white blotting paper. They were immaculately turned-out in full evening dress: white shirt and tie, the blackest of black tailcoats, black waistcoat, cummerbund and black dress trousers falling to shoes that shone like jet, all exquisitely tailored to their neat figure. Dagon was in towering heels, their sequined fishtail skirt and clinging, sleeveless top glittering in a spectrum of oily colours from green and blue through to indigo and purple, a black ruff sitting snugly about her neck. Behind them trotted two Disposable Demons with scruffy notepads in their hands. They wore their usual jacket, scarf and black trousers. One of them was wiping his hand on his jumper, his pen had already started leaking before he had the chance to write anything. They scuttled over to stand near their masters and watched the angels and souls continue to arrive and take their seats.

Gabriel got up and strode over to speak with the Prince and Lord of Hell. He could hardly believe what he was seeing and was furious at the sound of Raphael’s chuckling pealing away behind him still.

“Lord Beezlebub, Dagon, what brings you both here?”

“Wankwingzzz, zztay away from me. We have received a zzummons, here, look at it and don’t come too clozze.”

Dagon handed over the sticky piece of thick paper, soiled and dog-eared. Gabriel took it with an expression of extreme distaste on his face.

“Right…this does seem to be in order” his voice sounded stunned, his expression was one of bewilderment, eyebrows slanting across his rumpled forehead, “this is unprecedented, you had better take your seats next to us, I imagine protocol would demand that.”

He gestured to the empty places along from Michael, and Dagon took her seat next to the soldier angel, grinning and winking at her and then laughing when she turned away in disgust. Beelzebub took the seat next to the Lord of the Files and the two Erics crouched in front of them, notepads at the ready, their kohl smudged eyes darting backwards and forwards, taking in the whole extraordinary scene.

Crowley shrank down in his seat amongst the soldiers. This was the last thing he needed. He hoped that with all the essential holiness about, his two superiors would not notice the energy of his demonic signature. The last of the spectators had taken their seats and the hubbub of conversation died down gradually as all eyes turned to the central area.

They did not have long to wait. Aziraphale appeared first in company with a short, pale man in sober attire. His black jacket was topped with a wide white collar, his legs in breeches, the feet tucked into buckled shoes with a slight heel. Crowley recognised him at once, an extraordinary creative person he had spent several evenings with, closeted in deep conversation. This was Aziraphale’s Counsel, a good choice and a typical one. His face was thin and pale with a scholarly look, framed by hair that fell to his shoulders in soft dark waves. He held Aziraphale’s arm and appeared to be quietly speaking to the angel who, still wearing his dress uniform, looked strained and drawn as he and the human soul climbed the slope to the level top of the rocky outcrop that formed the dock.

Next to arrive were Ramiel and Remiel who swished to their rostrum in company with Miniel and Cherubiel, still in their ceremonial robes. Shortly after this, the two Court Ushers walked in, carrying the sceptre and orb of the Court and placed them on to central table. They were followed by two Clerks who bustled to their stations with papers and tablets in hand.

An Usher got to their feet, holding up a scroll and proceeded to read from it in a carrying voice.

“All rise for the Divine Counsel!”

The noise of all those in attendance coming to their feet was a mighty rumbling and susurration that echoed around the arena. Sahaquiel appeared in his stately robe and wig, and took his seat on the throne that sat atop the massive hulking boulder that served as the Judge’s dais. The Usher continued once everyone was once again seated.

“May it be known that the Trial by Peers of the Principality Aziraphale is now In Session!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t share the headcanon that Crowley is Raphael in this fic, purely because I wanted Raphael to turn up and be a thorn in Gabriel’s side. Milton has him counselling Adam and Eve in the Garden so I have gone with that version, adding in the idea that Aziraphale knew him from that time. The identity of Aziraphale’s human Counsel will be revealed in the next chapter, all guesses as to who that might be before the event are most welcome!
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	19. We had to choose a good man, our honour is at stake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale’s trial finally commences and we find out who his counsel is. Anpiel can’t stop staring. Gabriel is disconcerted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go as usual to my wonderful Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds)
> 
> If you haven’t already, go check out her wonderful fic [Something to Remember Me By](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22220305/chapters/53055079) which is full of great angel and demon OCs, romance and action.
> 
> Kudos and comments are very much welcome, do let me know if you are enjoying this as I am bogged down in writing the last chapters and could do with some encouragement just now. I know very little about how trials actually go, so just take it from me that, in Heaven in this world, this is how they work :)
> 
> Thank you for reading, have fun!

Lamechiel, Baruchiel and other members of OAF had arrived at the court amphitheatre early, keen to ensure that they had good places in the auditorium so that they could see and hear everything that went on. Since every angel in Heaven had received their own personal invitation to Aziraphale’s reconvened trial, chatter in all of the choirs had been of nothing else. Lamechiel watched as the angels and souls filed in to take their places in the arena. He could see the sprigs of blossom or other flowers that many of them still wore pinned to their chests. He had watched a group of giggling cherubs smuggling a banner from the demonstration in between them and he knew that others had signs and placards hidden in their robes. After what had happened with the soldiers, feelings were running high amongst the Host. Lamechiel was all too aware that the resentment felt against Michael and Gabriel for their recent actions was likely to come to a head here, in the trial of the renegade angel who had stood directly against the administration and stymied what had been referred to over the ages as The Great Plan.

There was an increase in the general hubbub at the appearance of Raphael. Some angels recognised them, others had never seen them before. The noise grew louder when the denizens of Hell appeared, angels noting the contrast that their singular appearance made with the rest of those in attendance with a shocked intake of breath. There were little cries and blessings audible across the angels’ side of the seating when the distinctive strong miasma of Hell became discernible to the assembled beings. Most angels didn’t know any of the demons by sight, but the appearance and aura of them spoke to an instinct inherent within each ethereal being and they understood their nature and extreme power without their identity having to be announced.

“Something big going on here, love.”

Lamechiel leaned against Baruchiel, folding their hands together between then so that they couldn’t be seen. Baruchiel smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Yes, sweetness, it seems so.”

They both looked upwards and then again at each other.

“Do you suppose She…?” began Baruchiel. Lamechiel squeezed back, cutting short what they had been about to say, “Who knows, lovely, best we don’t ask too many questions just now.” They stared at each other for a moment until the noise of the crowd indicated that something was finally happening.

Aziraphale appeared with his counsel by his side. The assembled Host craned in their seats to see the wayward cherub and his representative and a gentle ‘oooh’ ran through the crowd as they took in their appearance. Aziraphale did not look up but the other being did, acknowledging those in attendance who recognised him.

“Oh, it’s him. Clever choice, Aziraphale,” breathed Lamechiel to himself.

***

**Chalfont-St-Giles, Buckinghamshire, 1665**

John was tired, and his feet ached. Betty had just shown his latest visitor out and he was relaxing with a forbidden glass of port, knowing that she wouldn’t tell his physician if he restricted himself to just the one. He felt he needed it after the conversation he had just had with the rather intense young man who had lisped his sibilants so badly once the discourse had become heated. He had raised certain subjects dealt with in the writer’s most recent work that he had been keen to discuss, most notably the issue of angels and love, which seemed to bother him a great deal. The poet had shared what he believed in his heart to be right and the man, in his turn, had told him much of pain and disillusionment. He had felt the other’s distress and tried to be kind. This had been this particular person’s third visit, and each time he had opened up a little more. Despite the darkness he brought with him, he was interesting and funny, his observations sensitive, his language often poetic.

John had always been a perceptive man, he may have lost the last of his proper sight thirteen years previously, but he could still turn his face to the light and discern the darkness as it stole across him. His life had been a long one, and he had seen many things. He had travelled, studying in Italy and then on to see what interested him in Switzerland and France. He had known the love of three wives and the joy of fatherhood and then endured in turn the indescribable anguish of losing the ones he loved best. He had taken risks and ridden the wave of civil war, first rising high in favour and then being dashed against the rocks of political change. He had revelled in popularity then suffered the pain of being persecuted for his beliefs and his writing. He knew what it was to have had his dreams fulfilled and to have lost everything. It was this understanding that enabled him to write about the fall of angels and the pain of those thus damned.

There had been a stream of these visitors over the last year since his great work had been published. It had all begun with Master Fell, the softly spoken gentleman from London who collected early manuscripts. Fell had been kind, and fulsome in his praise for the poetry, particularly keen to talk about the portrayal of Eden and demons in his work. His gout had not troubled him so badly that evening, after the gentleman had left.

Some time after that there had been other callers, shown in by his wife, her pleasure in their homage to his talent clear in her voice as she announced them. She had tolerated much, the displeasure of his erstwhile supporters and the derision of the church. Their current straitened circumstances were all down to him as, since the Restoration, his fortunes had declined precipitously. Although he was no longer in any physical danger, their income was paltry now and they wanted for many things that they had previously taken for granted. He owed her a great deal, for her care and tolerance, even if she and his daughters did quarrel, often and loudly.

The voices of his guests questioned him and explained things for hours, often to the point where he was fatigued to the limit of his resources. They were not as polished as Fell, nor as eloquent as this most recent man had been. There was something… _off_ about them, something not quite right. Of course, he couldn’t look into their faces, but his senses were acute as he sat attentive in his chair by the fire and took in what their voices told him. After a while and some thought he began to believe he knew what they might be, and he grew somewhat frightened and a little more awed. Over time, he became accustomed to the strangeness and accepted their presence as a gift. He conversed and argued with them, but most of all, he listened. It was not long before he knew he must make additions and amendments to his work. These he had mapped out in his head and then he summoned his amanuensis, speaking out the revisions to his poem, fussing over scansion and choice of words. It had to be right for them, those guests from another world. Just before his death, he thought on it and knew with certainty what they had been. He feared what was to come on account of it, praying in his last hours that he had been good enough, that he had been enough.

***

Leaving the cottage after his last extraordinary conversation with the blind poet, Crowley became aware of a lone figure walking towards him on the quiet country road. As it came closer, Crowley recognised the shape of it, tall and slim in its human incarnation. He stopped and bowed low.

“My Lord. Are you come to see the writer?”

The cold face of he who had once been the brightest angel in Heaven loomed towards him, his beauty stark in the starlight, the bright curls glistening against the backdrop of the sky. That voice filled with deadly warmth and sickly sweetness, like honey, like slow poison.

“Ah, Crawley, my dear serpent, what brings you here?”

“The same as you I guess. I would leave it till tomorrow, he is tired.”

“Would you presume to tell me what I can or cannot do, Crawley?”

Crowley, still rising from his bow, shook his head, not risking any further speech.

“Good, it is not to be advised. No-one is ever tired once they are in my presence. He will speak with me, I have a need to set the record straight, the apostles did not do me justice, as I’m sure you will agree. Mixing us up, to start with, was a grave error, do you not think?”

“Yes, indeed, my Lord.” No other answer was possible.

“Be gone from me and make more mischief, my faithful servant.” Thus released, Crowley hastened away.

***

_Paradise Lost_ was reprinted in a second edition in 1674, with twelve books instead of ten. It was widely hailed as a masterpiece, its genius unprecedented, divinely inspired, some said. They might have been shocked had they understood how right, yet all at once, wrong, they were in thinking that. The author died the same year and went up to meet his reward.

_***_

The seventeenth century poet, sighted now and as he had been in his prime, stood by Aziraphale in the accused’s place in the courtroom and looked around him at the assembled company. On his arrival all those years ago he had been amused to re-encounter some of the people who had made the journey to his cottage at the very end of his life to take issue with what he had written in his epic work. Angels were an argumentative lot, it turned out, but no more so than demons. It made sense to him, he had always known instinctually that they were all made of the same stuff. There was precious little to choose between them it seemed to him, apart from superficial notions of presentation and what constituted decorum. He discovered after a while that he had preferences amongst them, Gabriel was a bit of a knobstick, Michael, alarming, Sandalphon to be avoided at all costs and Uriel rather an unknown quantity. Aziraphale here was kind and polite. He had been rather overwhelmed to be asked to be his counsel in such an important legal action, but once Aziraphale had explained why he was the right soul for the job, he had stiffened his resolve and got down to preparing his defence with help from the two seraphs from the Lawyers’ Council. Now the time was here, and he was to defend an ethereal being whose actions were unprecedented. He looked upwards to the space surrounding them and hoped his faith would see them through to an equitable conclusion. He had long believed in the triumph of love over all things.

***

Crowley’s heart sank as he watched the arrival of the jury. They filed in and sat in the gleaming marble niches carved out of the enormous rock that faced the dock. All six of them were in army uniform. They took their seats and looked over to Michael, as if seeking her approval. She frowned and motioned for them to face the Judge. A rigged jury, fabulous. After everything that had happened and still the archangels were trying to influence the outcome of the trial. There were mutterings throughout the seated angels that clearly echoed Crowley’s feelings on this issue, and even a few louder voices saying ‘unfair’ and ‘set-up’.

Ramiel and Remiel immediately jumped to their feet and approached the Judges dais.

“We beg leave…”

“To petition your Lordship…”

“To have this jury…”

“Dismissed…”

“On the grounds of bias…”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Sahaquiel interrupted, “would _one_ of you approach the bench and outline your objections to me in full.” The two seraphs looked at each other for a moment and nodded. Remiel walked forward and made his way up the stairway at the side of the Judge’s rock. When he reached the senior angel’s side he started speaking to Sahaquiel, showing him papers and making animated gestures with his hands. Sahaquiel nodded and went through the points indicated to him one by one. After a few minutes of this, during which Crowley noticed Michael’s face grow darker, an agreement appeared to be reached and Remiel began the journey back to his place. Aziraphale was not looking at the assembled company but kept his gaze at his own feet, not wanting to be distracted, Crowley guessed. The Judge rose to his full height and his voice boomed across the expanse of seating around him.

“The jury is dismissed on the grounds that its constitution is unlawful for the trial of this nature. The defendant is a Principality in name only at present, with recognition of cherub status to be reinstated at the end of these proceedings. As my learned friend here has pointed out, this is a trial by peers as befits his rank, and demands a jury of eight choir representatives. These will be chosen in the usual way. Will those notified please make their way to the front of the court when they receive the Call.”

The soldiers in the Jury niches obediently stood up and filed their way to the edge of the central arena, taking their places amongst the crowd where they could find spaces. Michael and Gabriel had their heads together and were clearly talking furiously. Raphael, face wreathed in smoke, smiled benevolently and gave Aziraphale a little wave. Aziraphale looked relieved. John Milton patted him on the shoulder, his thin, scholarly face brightened with an encouraging smile.

Crowley had no idea what the Judge had meant when he had mentioned the choosing process. He looked around at the assembled angels and took in their air of expectation. Suddenly there was a crackle of power and he noticed a white-robed figure stand up just behind him and start pushing past the knees of its brethren to reach the aisle, walking down from there towards the Jury rock. Others followed them from different places within the seating and took their places in the niches vacated by the previous jurors.

The Usher faced the Judge’s throne and spoke clearly. The acoustics of this place were miraculously designed so that those speaking could be heard in every seat there was, the sound spiralling up into the air from those in the central space.

“All jury members must take their sacred oath that they have no connection to the defendant. Will the Jury stand and state their names and Choir.” The eight figures stood and came forward, one by one.

“Asariel, of the Seraphim. I swear by Her name that I have no formal interest in this case.” The seraph sat and the others followed suit.

“Zaphiel of the Cherubim… Haziel of the Thrones… Araquiel of the Dominions… Barrathiel of the Virtues… Camael of the Powers…Haniel of the Principalities… Ordinary Angel Af…”

Once all eight angels were seated, one of the Ushers came forward and gave each a bundle of papers that Crowley could see contained a number of pages and bulkier items, which he could only imagine were copies of the incriminating photographs he had seen in the file he had been given. It was with a cold sense of dread that he realised what Aziraphale was about to be put through. He shuddered at the thought of seeing the angel publicly shamed for his friendship with him, a demon, one of the Fallen. He was glad to be present but was not looking forward to being witness to the humiliation of the one being in all of creation that he cared for the most. He put his head in his hands and groaned a little. This was all his fault. Perhaps he should never have approached Aziraphale on the wall that day. He didn’t regret it for himself. He had no idea what he might have been were it not for the influence of the angel, although there were two beings there, sprawled across their seats, scowling at the angels beside and across from them who perhaps gave him a clue. He was nothing like them. The only saving grace, if one such as he could be allowed to put it that way, was that Aziraphale was, in his turn, nothing like the Archangels currently making such extreme faces of disdain at the Prince and Lord of Hell sitting so close to them. On reflection, perhaps he had done Aziraphale a favour after all.

After everything had settled and the jurors finished rustling their papers, Sahaquiel stood again.

“I invite the Prosecution to make their opening statement so that I may decide if there is a case to answer.”

He sat and leaned his cheek against his splayed fingers as Rizoel stepped forward and began to speak.

***

Anpiel had also come to the court early, and was sitting on one of the seats directly in front of the central area, across from where the Archangels and demons were seated. She had tried and failed to catch Aziraphale’s eye in an attempt to give him a supportive smile. Now she found herself unable to stop staring at the demons who sat looking alternately angry and amused at what was going on around them. Beelzebub, she knew, was a Prince, and the second most powerful member of the Dark Council. She didn’t know the demon next to them, who smiled a lot of the time with an unfeasible amount of teeth. The ones that interested her the most were the two who crouched in front of the senior demons. They were identical, with smooth skin and rather sweet faces, their long lashes smudged around with dark lines that only served to make the sparkle in their lovely eyes brighter. Both demons were looking around them in wonder, pads of paper and pens hugged to their chests. One of them caught her eye and she saw him nudge his companion and then they were both gazing at her. She ventured a small smile in return, they looked somewhat lost and very sweet with their little horns made of dark hair that looked so soft, and the cheeky grins that answered her expression. One of them winked at her and she blushed and turned her head away. It wasn’t long before she ventured to look at them again and saw that they were both still grinning across at her. She smiled again at them and felt the warmth in her cheeks increase. Then the Usher started speaking and she turned away, looking across at Aziraphale again. ‘ _Anpiel_ ,’ she scolded herself, internally, ‘ _this won’t do. You are here to bear witness to Aziraphale’s trial, not to flirt with random demons…_ ’ Oh, that was what she had been doing, wasn’t it? Flirting. She cleared her throat and concentrated on what was being said. Within five minutes, she had forgotten her resolve and was looking across again, shyly pleased that her glances were being reciprocated, every single time.

***

Crowley watched Aziraphale’s expression change as the charges were read out by the Prosecution lawyer. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t been expecting, but it still affected him to see the hurt on his friend’s face when it was suggested that he hadn’t done his job properly. All the accusations hinged on the angel’s association with him, apart from the charges of desertion and stopping the war. It was all wrapped up under the overreaching term of Treason Against the Wield of Heaven and The Great Plan as defined by Celestial Law. After the Prosecution lawyer stopped speaking and stepped down, Sahaquiel rose to his feet once more and pronounced that the court had a _billa vera_ , a true bill, indicating that the charges were admissible in law. Now the proceedings proper could commence. Aziraphale’s counsel stepped forward and turned smartly, bowing first to the Judge, then to the Archangels and their lawyer. He brought a paper to his face and began to speak.

“My Lord, members of the jury, I, John Milton, am here to speak on behalf of the cherub Aziraphale, with the intention of pursuing his defence against the charges that have been laid before this court. First, I intend to show, with the assistance of the two learned gentlemen here,” he lifted his hand to indicate Ramiel and Remiel, who both inclined their heads neatly in response, “that at no time was the said angel ever in dereliction of his duty whilst on assignment on Earth. Secondly, I shall seek to demonstrate that the actions taken by the former Principality with regard to the End of Days were, in fact, in accordance with God’s Great Plan for all life in the Universe. Once I have established this to the court’s satisfaction, I shall go on to prove that all of the actions taken by the cherub Aziraphale during his time on active duty have been in accordance with the most ancient and powerful strictures that govern the behaviour and conduct of celestial beings. At no point has this angel ever acted in a manner that contravenes this ancient lore. Through the evidence submitted to the court today, it shall become clear to you, most honourable ethereal and infernal beings, that all Aziraphale is guilty of is love.”

There was a ripple of applause through the angels’ side of the auditorium at this that was quickly silenced when the judge looked across with a frown.

“I will have order in this court,” his voice boomed around the arena and silence settled over the assembled company once more.

The Defence counsel waited for the noise to die away and then turned to address the jury directly.

“What you are about to witness includes evidence of a love and an attachment that is unprecedented here. I charge you all, good jury members, to pay attention at all times, keep your minds free of prejudice and use the Grace that you have been endowed with by almighty God to come to the correct conclusion concerning this case.”

Milton bowed to Aziraphale and stepped back after having made the opening statement. The two lawyers rose to their feet and walked to the front of their rostrum. Ramiel spoke first.

“It should be understood by the angels of the jury that much of the work undertaken by Aziraphale in his capacity of Principality with a responsibility to watch over humanity was of necessity conducted incognito. The regulations that govern the work of a field angel of this kind are very clear in their stipulation that the free will of human souls should be allowed to operate unencumbered by knowledge of supernatural actions. In consequence, all of the people from whom you shall be hearing today are those who met Aziraphale briefly at times of extreme stress. They did not know that he was a celestial being until we informed them of this fact just prior to this action. We shall come to the evidence of the greater bulk of the angel’s work in a moment.”

Crowley laughed internally at this. Aziraphale had not always been very good at covering up his divine light in the very beginning, and there had been a number of embarrassing cock-ups that he had witnessed and helped with in the early years. He had improved though, and become more discreet and comfortable with the small deceits made necessary by his work as the years had passed by them. He knew Aziraphale had always done his best, and was good at what he did, both the blessings, and, as it turned out, the temptations that he occasionally undertook on behalf of Crowley. They had always, he knew, been at their very best when working together, because they both loved humanity, that was what made it all work so well.

“We now call forth the witnesses given at schedule one in the papers,” announced Ramiel.

“We submit for the court’s consideration the accounts of souls who have come forward to testify their personal experiences of the cherub Aziraphale during his duties on Earth,” Remiel added.

A line of souls in dressed in garb from all time periods walked to the witness box and stood there. A couple of them waved at Aziraphale and he smiled back at them. All were addressed in the same way by the two lawyers.

“Can you please give your name and tell the court in your own words what the circumstances were of your meeting with the defendant.”

There followed a rather moving set of testimonies of kindness and gentle intervention. Crowley was taken aback by the first person to speak.

“I am Girin, I swear that the man, the angel, I thought he was a man, at the time. He came with food and blankets to me and the other children in the belly of the big boat where we were taken by Ningishzida, the great serpent. He brought wine and sweetmeats too and looked the other way when the serpent took us off the boat to the dry land.”

Girin bowed her head and left the stand to take her place back in the souls’ side of the arena. Crowley, sitting in disguise in the Heavenly court remembered little Girin, a thin and frightened child he had found huddled together with a small group of those who had become separated from their parents on that miserable day in Mesopotamia. Thinking about it now, he supposed it had been the first occasion that he and Aziraphale had actually worked together, although it had not been planned that way. He had thought the angel was going to stop him, his expression had indicated just how conflicted he was when he had found a damp snake guarding a shivering group of children right at the bottom of that capacious boat, in one of the fodder stores. In the end, he had just pressed his lips together and turned his back on them all to walk away. Crowley had been angry and resentful until he had returned with food and blankets and placed them pointedly on the floor of the store, leaving without a word. Other things had appeared over the following weeks, although nothing had been said between them. Then there had been the minor fracas with the giraffes that had happened at a very convenient time to allow the demon and the children to get to the gangplank without being spotted. Crowley just hoped that the Prosecution lawyer didn’t ask too many questions about what the hell those kids were doing in the _belly of the big boat_ in the first place, and who the sodding _great serpent_ was.

After this, the testimonies were given steadily and the line diminished. Aziraphale smiled and nodded to each one after they spoke, mouthing ‘thank you’, clearly moved by their words.

“I am Jonet, I swear that the man I see there comforted me before my burning. I was half mad with fear and he calmed me. He told me that God loved me and would take my pain. After they tied me to the post, I fainted and never felt the fire. Now I know that was his doing, and I am grateful to him.”

“Hugo, oh yes, he was an RAMC chap, held my hand while I bled out. Awfully decent. It was good to have someone there. He told me I was loved, and that I would see my mother again when I was asking for her, at the end…”

“…I remember his eek. Me and Pete, we were being chased by the lillies, he gave us a place to hide and some jarry and a cup of rosie. Everyone knew him, he was a bona omi-polone. We called him Auntie, and he never turned anyone away…”

“I am Alan, Mr Fell there, he visited me after my trial and we talked. It helped me that there was someone who didn’t judge me for what I had decided to do, what I had to do… I didn’t know he was an angel, no. He was very kind…”

“Kenneth, ooh yes, I knew him alright, he was a bit of a laugh, but I liked talking literature with him best. He came to a lot of my shows. He was really nice to me after my old Mum died, nothing unseemly, what are you suggesting? No, just nice, accepting, he was never hard work to be with…”

“Ruth, yeah, I found myself at his bookshop, don’t know how. My parents had thrown me out after finding me with my girlfriend. He gave me hot chocolate and told me where I could get lodgings. I got a job not long after that. We never forgot him, ‘cause he was just there when I was at my lowest, you know?”

There were audible sighs from the crowd of angels and the appearance of frilly handkerchiefs to wipe away the odd tear as the evidence was given and questions asked of the various souls. When all of the statements had been taken, Sahaquiel spoke again.

“Does the brief for the prosecution have any questions for these witnesses?”

Rizoel had discussed with both Michael and Gabriel the damage that might be done to their case by the aggressive questioning of vulnerable human souls after the giving of emotional testimony and they had accepted his advice to refrain from doing so. He shook his head.

“No, my Lord.”

Ramiel stopped forward once more.

“Call for the evidence of the cherub Aziraphale’s activities on Earth!”

At this, the figures of Radueriel and Harahal appeared at the perimeter of the arena, both staggering under the weight of a tower of files each. They tottered forward and laid these on the evidence table where they promptly collapsed, spilling over the ornate woodwork and on to the marble beneath it. Ramiel spoke first.

“This is just a fraction of the regular reports submitted by the defendant in the course of his regular duties. You will see, members of the jury, that there are examples of these in your papers, and you may examine any of the files here before your deliberations, should you wish to do so. Now, may I call the Lord Gabriel to the witness stand, please?”

Gabriel, who had been reclining in his seat with a bored look on his face throughout, sat up and looked indignant.

“Me, why?” could be heard, as he looked round at Michael, who was still glowering, and Raphael, who lounged across their seat having finished their very large spliff.

“Go on man,” they urged, “get up there and do your duty, you’re always bollocking on about the virtues of the truth, go tell some of it.”

Gabriel scowled at the other Archangel then stood and smoothed down his robes, walking with casual deliberation to the witness rostrum and seating himself there. He looked at Ramiel.

“Go on then, ask away,” he said, rudely. The lawyer frowned slightly and continued.

“Lord Gabriel, can you confirm that you acted as Aziraphale’s direct superior throughout his time on Earth, and that he reported directly to you.”

“I can, and he did, yes, what of it?”

“Good, yes. Can you also confirm that you received regular reports from the Principality during this time?”

“I did.”

Ramiel took up one of the files, opened it and approached the witness box, showing the Archangel there the bottom of one of the pages within it

“Lord Gabriel, can you tell the court whose signature is on the bottom of this report from the Principality Aziraphale dating from the human year nineteen hundred and sixty seven CE, please?”

Gabriel blew out his cheeks and looked around at the assembled company, in an exaggerated gesture of bewilderment, as if he could scarcely believe he was being asked such a simple question.

“Of course it’s my signature, I signed off all of his reports.” Ramiel swung round closing the file and replacing it gently on the table. He turned and faced Gabriel once more

“Good. And can you explain to the court what this signing-off meant, please?”

“What are you trying to do here? Yeah, I did sign it off but…”

“Just answer the question, my Lord, if you please.”

Gabriel was clearly very put out by this line of questioning. He was not used to the process of rational, argument, being more accustomed to stating his opinion and obtaining the immediate agreement of anyone that he was talking to, without any challenge or dissent to his thought processes, such as they were. He looked sullen as he answered, realising that the bureaucratic processes he had instigated were being used against him, but as yet unsure as to what end.

“It meant that the work was deemed as being satisfactory…” Now he realised what they were trying to do. “Okay, fine, I signed off his work and it was fine.”

“Quite so. Now, my Lord, you have been, I believe, the senior administrator responsible for conducting the Principality Aziraphale’s regular performance reviews, have you not?”

“Yes,” answered Gabriel in a frustrated tone.

“Can you tell the court if the defendant here ever failed one of these reviews?”

“No, he didn’t, but that means nothing, we didn't know he was frat…”

“Please confine yourself to answering my questions, my Lord,” snapped Ramiel. He walked back to the rostrum and Remiel stepped forward with a small, round shiny something in his hand that he held out so that the Archangel could see it.

“Lord Gabriel,” he began, “would you tell the court what this is please?”

Gabriel took it from the lawyer and squinted at it.

“It’s some sort of medal, for uh,” he screwed up his eyes and looked at the inscription, “outstanding service, it says.”

“Could you read what is engraved on the other side so that everyone can hear you, please?”

“The Principality Aziraphale, in the year eighteen hundred” he muttered, realising just what it was he had in his hands.”

“This, souls and beings,” announced Remiel, “is the medal presented to the defendant by the Lords Gabriel and Sandalphon in appreciation of his work. At that time, Aziraphale was about to be promoted. Perhaps you can tell me, Lord Gabriel, what your eventual decision was regarding this at the time?”

Gabriel was cornered, there was nothing he could do to avoid telling the truth.

“I decided, in the end, that he should stay on Earth and carry on doing his job there.”

“Because, at that time, in your opinion, he was particularly good at his job and you needed him to continue doing it. Is that a reasonable summation of the situation, would you say?”

“Yes! Okay, you got me, but that was before we knew that he was…”

“With the greatest respect, my Lord Gabriel,” interjected Sahaquiel, “please stick to answering the questions as put to you by my learned friend here.”

“No further questions, my Lord.” Remiel smiled and returned to Ramiel’s side.

Rizoel rose and walked to stand in front of Gabriel. “I would like to ask a question, if you would give me leave, my Lord.” Sahaquiel inclined his head and Rizoel continued.

“My Lord Gabriel, can you tell me if, during this time, you had any idea of the Principality Aziraphale’s friendship with a demon?”

“No, I did not, not at any time.”

“No further questions, my Lord.” Rizoel returned to where he had previously been standing

Gabriel, dismissed, walked back to his seat. That had been unexpectedly uncomfortable and disconcerting. He could see that, with what he had asked, Rizoel was attempting to suggest that Aziraphale might have been untruthful in his reports, but his question had also served to expose Gabriel as an inattentive manager. He should have guessed something was going on with Aziraphale but he had remained oblivious. It was all so much tougher than he had been expecting. He thought they would just have to mention the association with one of the Fallen, and the trial would just proceed smoothly to an inevitable conviction, ridding him of the problem of Aziraphale and demonstrating to the Host what happened to any angel who dared to challenge the authority of the Archangels. He had not been prepared for a robust defence of the wayward angel nor had he anticipated being called to the witness stand and being made to look inadequate. He chanced a glance towards Michael, who had that pinched, angry look about her that she sometimes got. There would be no sympathy for him from that quarter, certainly.

Crowley was jubilant. The lawyers had used the facts cleverly to make Gabriel look stupid and vindicate Aziraphale’s working life in a way that he found both entertaining and satisfying. The angel hadn’t located him in the crowd as yet and he was glad because he didn’t want to distract him or make himself conscious. It was going well, but the most difficult evidence had yet to be heard, that which related to the failed Apocalypse, their association, and whatever it was that Aziraphale felt for him. What on earth or in Heaven was his legal team going to come up with to justify all of that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was amused at the idea of angels and demons going to bother Milton after Paradise Lost was published when Aziraphale told Gabriel and Crowley about it, especially when I learned that there was a second edition published with extensive amendments and that it was expanded from 10 books to 12. I couldn’t resist the notion of the poor man getting no peace for supernatural beings dropping in on him at all hours. Of course he was blind, so he wouldn’t have been able to see how weird and oddly dressed they all were, apart from Aziraphale and Crowley, who knew how to behave! I have no idea if Milton was a pleasant man or not, but he is in this fic. I chose him because he believed that angels loved each other and had metaphysical sex and because, by the time Paradise Lost was published, he subscribed to the view that all beings are made from the same essential material, including humans, angels and demons. This didn’t go down too well with his contemporaries but is useful for Aziraphale’s defence. We owe him a debt anyway, for writing one of the first major works of angel and demon fan fiction!
> 
> Angel characters
> 
> The Judge - Sahaquiel (Seraph) [Angel Prince of the Fourth Heaven]
> 
> Prosecution Lawyer - Rizoel (Seraph) [angel with the power to thwart demons]
> 
> Defence Lawyers - Ramiel (Seraph) [angel who oversees souls for judgement]  
> Remiel (Seraph) [angel who leads souls for judgement]
> 
> The jury 
> 
> \- Asariel (Seraph) [Angel who rules the moon]  
> \- Zaphiel (Cherub) [Angel ruler of the Cherubim]  
> \- Haziel (Throne) [Angel whose name means ‘vision of God’]  
> \- Araquiel (Dominion) [Angel with dominion over the Earth]  
> \- Barrathiel (Virtue) [Angel of support]  
> \- Camael (Power) [Angel whose name means ‘who sees God’]  
> \- Haniel (Principality) [Angel who guards the tree of life]  
> \- Af (Angel) [Angel of light]


	20. That’s because you see it all clearly, and at once, as in a poet’s eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale takes the stand for his cross-examination by the Defence team. Crowley is mortified but receives some support before discorporating with embarrassment. There is an unexpected arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go once more to my Beta, the very lovely [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) and to my friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) who have encouraged and supported me.
> 
> Writing trial scenes is really hard, who knew? Painted myself into a corner there by writing a fic that ended with a trial scene and then had to write… a trial scene!
> 
> There is art for this fic! The wonderful [MsMoonstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsMoonstar/pseuds/MsMoonstar) drew a lovely image of Aziraphale in his formal uniform for his trial. I don’t know how to embed this here so just follow the link and take a look [Aziraphale at his trial](https://imgur.com/a/Zz5tfLM) my thanks go to Ms Moonstar for doing this for this story! <3
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter, as ever, comments and kudos are very much appreciated. Please do feed the writer.

“Aziraphale, you stand here under oath, accused of fraternisation with the enemy, to wit, the Demon Crowley. You are now going to be asked some questions about this and I want you to take the time you need to consider each one and then answer as best you can. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

Remiel stood down and John Milton took his place looking kindly at Aziraphale before he started to ask the questions they had agreed on beforehand.

Aziraphale stood motionless, the fingers of one hand folded into the grip of the other and held so tightly that his knuckles were white. He refused to look over at the Archangels, knowing that if he did, there was every chance that he would become the indecisive and stammering mess that the sight of their judgemental faces always reduced him to. That wouldn’t do, not this time.

He concentrated instead on the face of his counsel. The kind brown eyes he looked into were soft, the expression one of encouragement. He had told the gentle poet everything, all about his time with Crowley, even about their Arrangement. Although he had not judged, Milton had suggested that it might be best not to bring that up, if it could be done without outright lying to the court. Aziraphale thought he could probably manage that, he was a past master at that sort of obfuscation after all. Even if he wanted to be honest for himself, there was Crowley to consider. He must not speak of their agreement on his account, it wasn’t only his secret to betray, and there were senior demons here. Other things would not be so easy to avoid, he knew. His heart was pounding as he prepared to do the one thing that he had never allowed himself to in relation to this subject, not really, not even within his own mind. He took a breath and steadied himself as he prepared to tell the whole universe, it seemed, and the one person in all of creation who mattered most to him, the truth about his feelings.

“Would you tell the court how you came to meet the person in question please?"

“I met him on the wall, the wall of the garden…”

***

Crowley sat in the middle of the group of soldiers and dug the fingers of both hands into the dense muscle of each thigh as he leaned forward to take in the sight of his angel answering the first questions put to him. He was trembling with sympathetic tension for his friend, willing him to say something, anything that might not damn him in the eyes of everyone assembled here. He wanted to leap up, shout out that it was all his fault, that he was to blame for anything the angel might have done that the court was going to condemn him for. He knew that Aziraphale had often been criticised by his brethren for not behaving in a proper manner, that he had been censured for many of the things he loved doing, but he had watched the angel over the many centuries that they had both been on Earth, and through his fussiness and partiality for certain things, his love of comfort and his hedonistic tendencies, he had always been kind, and he had always done his best to act with love in what he did where humanity was concerned. He knew that the angel’s affectionate tolerance of himself was undoubtedly more particular. He could only hope that this might be passed off as falling under the general obligation of an angel to care for all things, even those most wretched in the sight of the Almighty.

The most remarkable thing so far for Crowley had been how the accusation of subverting the end times had gone. All Aziraphale’s lawyers had done was to suggest that the very fact that the Apocalypse and Last Battle had been successfully averted indicated that this course of events represented God’s ultimate intention, the exact same argument that he and the angel had used at Tadfield. Sahaquiel had intervened to stop proceedings at this point, making an unequivocal and strongly worded statement to the effect that the Heavenly Court of Session was very much not the place to start questioning God’s will. He had gone on to say that any hint of such a thing was not to be tolerated, before promptly throwing the charge out of court. The Archangels had all, with the exception of Raphael, looked extremely annoyed at this development, Gabriel particularly. It would seem that he was still harbouring a personal grudge about the extent to which he had felt wrong footed by the actions of Aziraphale on the day on which six thousand years of planning had been stymied. Beelzebub, too, had glowered at this and spent some time muttering into the ear of Dagon beside them. Despite the obvious wrath of the senior angels and demons, business had then been moved swiftly on to the next set of charges.

Crowley’s feelings on the dismissal of the charges relating to what had happened at Tadfield were complex. He was pleased that the whole business had not come in for closer scrutiny but, beyond that, he couldn’t understand why the same argument didn’t also extend to their friendship. If She was alright with them buggering up Her Great Plan, surely She was fine with their friendship or whatever it was they had between them. He knew what it was, if he was being totally honest with himself, but anything approaching the truth on that subject was something he tried to avoid whenever possible. He worried at his lip and looked around at the ridiculous numbers of beings who were here to witness this. Whatever the outcome, it would set a precedent that could never be denied.

Crowley had listened carefully to the lawyer for the Prosecution, who was looking increasingly uncomfortable after a seemingly intense discussion with Gabriel that appeared to consist of a lot of hissed instructions that had left him looking pale and out of sorts. The main thrust of the argument he put before the court appeared to be simply that there were pictures of him and Aziraphale together and that this was verification of the angel’s treachery. No other proof was offered apart from reports submitted by Aziraphale that confirmed his presence at the date and approximate location of each of the images. The complete lack of corroborating facts appeared to rattle the seraph Gabriel had engaged to make the case for the Archangels. Of course this circumstantial evidence was damning for the angel, there was no doubt about that. But the fact remained that none of them appeared to know the intimate details of their Arrangement. They had obviously, for once, done their jobs well and seamlessly enough that their continuing subterfuge was not made evident by the paperwork that remained to mark it.

Now Crowley endured the bittersweet sensation of hearing Aziraphale’s relatively concise account of their first meeting. This was such a treasured memory, and it was moving for him to hear the angel’s rendition of it formally spoken in this place. Although Aziraphale was clearly nervous, the timbre of fond reminiscence was seeping increasingly into his tone as he spoke. Crowley was surprised to hear a sympathetic response in the form of what sounded suspiciously like a lot of voices simultaneously saying ‘ahhhhh’ rather warmly, as the angel told the court how he had sheltered the demon under his wing. He turned his head to look behind him at the bulk of the angels in attendance and was nonplussed by the fond expressions and soft smiles exchanged between those sitting behind him, not what he had been expecting from this audience at all.

***

“Aziraphale, can I just establish a few facts for the benefit of the jury. You have been stationed on the Planet Earth for all the time since the closure of the garden, is that correct?”

“It is, yes.”

“And in all that time, were you operating alone, that is, without the support of others of the Host?”

“That is the case.”

“And your managers? The Archangel Gabriel, for instance, did he visit you often, check up on you, enquire after your welfare”

The prosecution lawyer jumped up at this.

“Objection, your Honour.”

“And your objection is, Rizoel?” said Sahaquiel.

“This line of questioning does not pertain to the allegation in hand, which is the issue of fraternisation with the enemy.”

Remiel stepped forward and spoke.

“My Lord, Aziraphale’s counsel is merely trying to establish the conditions under which he was operating on Earth, so that the jury may better understand the testimony that he is about to make concerning the allegation of fraternisation.”

“Objection overruled. You may continue Master Milton.”

Milton nodded and looked to Aziraphale, expecting an answer to his question. Aziraphale looked blankly back at him, having forgotten exactly what he had been asked, his concentration scattered by the interruption.

“I asked about your visits from your manager, Lord Gabriel,” his counsel prompted, gently, “did he come to see you, to find out how you were faring?”

“Ah, no, not to any great extent. I saw him when I came for my performance review meetings, but that was here, of course. He dropped in once or twice, but not that often, no. I received all my instructions by written commandment.”

“How many times did he visit, Aziraphale, can you be more specific for the court please”

Aziraphale frowned and looked down at his hands, apparently thinking back.

“Once, I remember just when I was opening my bookshop, when he came with the - the medal, you know, um, a couple of times during the recent, erm, unpleasantness…. so that would be three,“ he looked up, confident now, “three times, yes.”

“Three times in six thousand years, is that right?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“And did you have any other visitors, from the Host?”

“No, not at all. I wondered about it in the beginning but after a while I became used to the solitude. My brother Cherubiel came to help me once, but I had to ask them specially. They told me then that it was prohibited for other angels to come to Earth to see me. I had not known that before.”

“Did they tell you from whom this instruction came, Aziraphale?”

“They said it was a general order, to avoid distracting me from my duties, issued from the office of Lord Gabriel. I understood it was in my interest and did not think to question it.”

_‘In his interest to be abandoned’_ thought Crowley, ‘ _wasn’t that just typical of how the angel justified the neglect of his so-called betters.’_

There was a ripple of reaction through the spectators at this. Angels were social beings, everyone knew that. They took comfort in the proximity of their siblings. The mutterings were expressions of dismay at the very thought of such isolation.

“I submit to the court that it be recorded that the cherub Aziraphale remained alone on Earth amongst the humans for over six thousand years without any substantive contact from any other supernatural being apart from his adversary, the demon Crowley.”

Milton nodded to the Court Usher who noted this on their tablet with a flourish of hands.

‘It is noted, Master Milton.”

“I shall now move on to the main issue contained in this allegation. Can you tell me, Aziraphale, what is the nature of your relationship with the demon Crowley?”

There was a silence while Aziraphale considered this, his eyes flickering between his feet and the face of his interlocutor, hands twisting a little in each other’s grasp in front of him. The atmosphere in the court was charged as every being there focused on the angel and what he was about to say. Had anyone dropped the metaphorical pin that an infinite number of angels were allegedly able to dance upon, the sound of its landing would have been clearly audible to everyone present.

Crowley closed his eyes. This was painful, he wondered how bad the embarrassment quotient was going to be and if discorporation were a possible option should things become utterly insufferable. They would never have talked about this in a million years, he realised, unless they were forced into it. Now Aziraphale _was_ being forced into it and it did not sit well with Crowley, however intense his most private feelings on the matter might be.

“He is my friend,” came the answer at last, “it wasn’t always so, or perhaps it was… erm, look, it’s a bit, well, complicated, you know.”

“Could you elaborate for the benefit of the court, please, exactly what you mean by that?”

Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered shut, and his face assumed a closed-off look for a moment, as if he was calling difficult things to mind. He knew these feelings so well, they were second nature to him, but sealed away so completely in the prison of his self-denial that he barely had access to them. His speech faltered a little, until he found the well-worn rhythm of how his heart beat on the subject.

“I - I remember when I saw him first, I was… surprised at how very lovely he was. Oh, I don’t just mean his beauty, which is self-evident, but how he was as a person, on the inside, I mean. There was this…instant connection, for me, at any rate. He was kind to me and he… he listened and smiled, like he was pleased to be with me. He made a joke and it felt…nice, like the way that friends are meant to be with one another.”

Aziraphale raised his head, looking hazy and bewildered, as if coming up for air from deep water.

Crowley, closed his eyes and groaned, face wreathed in blushes, remembering how much the angel’s smile had meant to him at that first meeting. Demons didn’t smile as a general rule, and no-one had been pleasant to Crowley for as long as he could remember before the garden. Aziraphale’s smiles, generously bestowed during their encounters, when they weren’t quarrelling, always pleased him, he had accepted that about himself for a long while now.

“So when I saw him again, I didn’t think to strike him down, it wouldn’t have been polite, because he was a friend, of sorts, and anyway, he was only doing his job, the same as me.”

The angel gave a little chuckle at this point, and Milton’s eyebrows rose at the sound of it. Aziraphale, seeing this, continued to speak, his words meeting the expectation of the other’s unspoken question.

“In the early years, when we ran into each other from time to time, he always questioned me. He mocked me. He was infuriating, it bothered me to start with. After a while, I realised that it helped me.”

“In what way did it help you, Aziraphale?”

“He would turn up and ask his questions, and tease me about what I was there for. ‘Here to do good?’, he would say, laughing at me. He always seemed to be able to guess, for some reason, what I was there for. He was always so clever…”

_‘Oh Aziraphale,’_ thought Crowley, ‘ _I was never cleverer than you, you silly angel.’_

The angel’s voice tailed off for a moment and he looked as if he was lost in the past. He shook his head a little and continued.

“Sometimes it was straightforward, I knew my duty and we met as adversaries and everything was clear cut and he seemed to understand that, and we both got on with our jobs. And those times, I sort of knew that all was well, and I was happy with my work. Other times he made me angry…”

“He made you angry. In what way did that help you?”

Aziraphale went on as if he hadn’t heard the question and somehow, this giving of evidence had moved from formal statements to something else, something more personal, a declaration, rather than a refutation. The atmosphere shifted, and angels leaned on their fists and held hands and listened and nodded and understood. And souls watched, puzzled, and altered their perceptions. And Archangels shifted in their seats and became uncomfortable and angry. And demons turned down their mouths and felt queasy. And Crowley stared and stared, feeling his blood run through his foolish heart and the colour come and go across his face as the words dropped into him.

“…we would quarrel and every time it was so _unsettling._ I used to get very annoyed. It took me a long time to see it, but eventually I realised that it was because I cared about what he thought of me. I hated it, I felt so ashamed, but it was true. I liked him and he mattered to me.”

The angel’s hands were moving now, gripping and releasing each other as he took his breaths to speak, swaying and shifting in his agitation, but with a voice that remained steady.

“At first I thought he was tempting me, because that was his nature, what, as a demon, he was sent to do, but after a while, I understood that he just liked asking questions…”

***

With every statement that he made, Aziraphale felt he was slowly taking himself apart, stripping himself down, flesh from his bones, nerves and sinews, blood vessels, his foolish heart, laid out there, beating and convulsing in the air as he bared his feelings in this unforgiving place. It was painful, the pain of air against newly cut flesh, going against everything he had always done to protect Crowley and himself from the punishment their sides would surely wreak upon them both, if they ever found them out.

There was so much he could say that he must not. How there was little about Crowley that he regarded as demonic now. The opposition between them, the words spoken, were a sham, and were he to be honest, with himself, he had known that in his heart time out of mind. How he had seen Crowley by him numerous times, seen him note what he was doing, nod and leave him to it, joking later that the angel was too clever for him, that there was no point in trying to thwart him. He had known the truth of it, that there were things he did that Crowley did not want to prevent, so he stayed away. He had known for years that if Crowley was commended in Hell, it was for events he had claimed that were nothing of his doing, wickedness the humans cultivated without assistance, obscenities that made the demon heartsick and sad. Crowley was mischievous, a trickster, funny and in his own way, sweet. He could not afford to let it be known, those elements of Crowley’s nature that might condemn him to his fiendish masters, so he kept them to himself, the truths that only he had seen. Even under oath he would safeguard the secrets that were sacrosanct between the demon and himself. He chose his words carefully, and started to speak once more. The utterances came out slowly, as if he was forcing them into the air against his better judgement.

“After a while, I - I suppose I realised that if his questions made me doubt myself, and what I had been sent to do, then that was down to me, not to anything he was doing. Had I been sure that he was wrong, it would have been easy to ignore him, but so very often, it just wasn’t, you see. So when that happened, I reconsidered and did things differently, and, I…”

He faltered here, this was the difficult point, the one they would condemn him for.

“I - I believe, I did them in a better way. I know it isn’t proper, for an angel to question his orders, but I have been told so very often how improper I am for an angel, that I have come to a position where I no longer care very much for propriety, I prefer to care about what feels most right to me, instead.”

Aziraphale looked down at his hands and continued to speak.

“He wouldn’t like to hear me say it, were he here, but sometimes he was kind, in the way he has of being kind, and sometimes he would accept a little kindness back from me. And after a while it came to my notice that we were friends, we were best friends. No-one heard or saw me quite like he did, he understood, he always understood. And I hope…”

Aziraphale’s voice became husky as he said this, he swallowed and continued.

“I hope he felt I understood him too, just a little bit. Knowing him has made me a better person, of that I am quite sure.”

He turned to face the five Archangels and spoke to them directly, his voice wavering at times but clear and distinct.

“I no longer expect any mercy from you, so I won’t bother asking, as it did me very little good before to ask for clemency. But I want you to know, before you do whatever foul thing you have in mind for me, that it has been _worth_ it. I’m so glad we put an end to your plans to destroy everything that is beautiful and good and foiled your chance to turn angel against demon in the silly, pointless war you craved so desperately.”

There was a catch in his voice now, something that might almost be a sob, quickly suppressed, and then the angel continued speaking.

“If I had my time again, I wouldn’t change a thing, I will always chose the Earth and its people, and Crowley, my dear Crowley, most of all I would always choose him. It is a privilege to call him my friend, even if I denied it when it mattered, which I will regret to the very end of my existence.”

The murmured approval of the Host assembled made itself felt once more at this statement in a musical swooping ‘ooh’ sound that rippled across the audience. Gabriel made a low-pitched huffing noise and Michael sniffed. Beelzebub was miming sticking their fingers down their throat while Dagon laughed soundlessly at them. The Erics were making notes, looking at each other and shrugging, before bending to their writing once more.

Aziraphale balled his hands into fists by his sides and stilled, standing ramrod straight on his rock, staring at nothing, a tear rolling down his pale cheek.

“Aziraphale,” Milton’s voice broke the silence that had fallen at the end of the angel’s statement, “would you say that your time on Earth has changed you?”

The angel looked across at his Counsel and a contemplative expression crossed his face, as if he was fully realising a thought that had remained half formed inside his mind.

“Well, yes, I suppose it has, on reflection,” he said, slowly.

“We have here the tears you shed for your friend, when you were parted from him. Remiel, exhibit A, if you would be so kind”

Remiel held up the little vial of tears, collected from Aziraphale during his sessions with his siblings in the barracks. The tiny bottle glinted in the light of the Heavenly court as he turned so that everyone present might catch a glimpse of it.

“I am reliably informed by the Lady Miniel, who understands such things, that these tears were cried for the sake of true love.”

Miniel and Cherubiel, standing on the perimeter of the area, gripped each other’s hands and looked nervously at the scene in front of them, This, they knew, was the crux of the defence’s argument and the most controversial element of it.

“Aziraphale, you have told us of your friendship in a most frank, and I must say, disarming way, I must ask you now to be steadfast and tell me, do you love the demon Crowley?”

The whole court tensed and every eye was on Aziraphale, whose face flushed red suddenly. He lifted his chin and looked defiant, his eyes blazing as he answered.

“Of course I do, don’t be ridiculous, how on Earth could I not?”

There was a pause, a stillness while the import of this statement sank in and then the courtroom erupted with clapping, cheering and whooping. There were angels on their feet, dancing and embracing. Singing broke out in places, and banners from the protest were unfurled and displayed, placards waving above the excited bodies as they swayed and held on to each other. It was a riot. The souls’ side of the arena was quiet at first, but then clapping was heard, and all at once they were joining in. The crescendo of sound drowned out the outraged noises coming from the Archangels, who were on their feet, gesturing for quiet. The Judge rose from his throne, his face darkening at the cacophony.

Crowley slid down in his seat, his hands over his mortified face. These words of love were what might come to him unbidden, late at night when his thoughts were unguarded, or when he was drunk, and the angel across from him was deep in an explanation, his face beautiful in its flushed animation, but he had never thought he would hear or say them, expecting the two of them to go on as long as they were allowed in the usual way, the only way in which he believed they would ever be able to manage what they had between them. He was squirming with discomfort when he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a voice right next to his ear against the background of the singing, chanting and general hubbub the angel’s declaration had brought forth from the assembled throng.

“ ’S alright, yer know, don’t be embarrassed. Loads of us feel the same, even me. I love my Nith, it’s just taken all this shit goin’ down to make me see it, so don’t fret, lad, let it happen, ’s fine. An’ it’s not just me as thinks it, look behind you and see how much support the pair of you have got.”

It was Nanael, leaning in to him through the noise of the general rejoicing. Crowley quirked his lips into a smile and spoke into the angel’s ear.

“Thought that wasn’t allowed for you lot, personal love, thought you were all meant to be perfect, aren’t you?”

“Nah, mate, I thought that once too, but it ain’t true, we weren’t made perfect, nobody is, especially them that says they are,” he said, indicating the Archangels with a sideways jerk of his head.

Crowley was about to ask Nanael where his other half was when Sahaquiel’s voice cut through the air.

“ORDER! ORDER, I say. I WILL have order in this court. Any further shouting, singing, whooping or other disgraceful noise, and I will see to it that the beings concerned, souls or angels, will be forcibly removed from this courtroom.”

Heads turned and obedient angel bodies took heed of the command, taking their seats again in response to the seraph’s stentorian tones. Souls, seeing the ethereal beings come to order, took their lead and settled likewise. Within a few minutes, the amphitheater resumed its air of expectant attention as all heads faced the lawyers standing near Aziraphale. A few banners and placards still swayed over the heads of the angels, but the sober face of the judge resumed its patient expression as he chose to ignore them in favour of continuing the trial

“Remiel, Ramiel, Master Milton, continue with the presentation of your evidence, then we shall hear from Rizoel for the Prosecution,” said, Sahaquiel, seating himself once more and leaning his head against his palm, his face attentive.”

***

“The time Aziraphale has spent on Earth has changed this angel fundamentally, as he has confessed himself. Of necessity, in order to fit in and be able to work as he was directed to do, he has come to love many things specifically. He loves humanity, its creativity, intelligence, ingenuity and capacity for love and self-sacrifice. Alongside this has grown a particular love for his opposite number on Earth. There may be many reasons for this, and we may never understand exactly what has affected this transformation. All we can say is that, because he is not Fallen, and remains in a state of Grace, what he has come to be must be acceptable in Her sight.”

Milton paused at this point and swung his gaze across all of the beings seated in the vast amphitheatre, his eyes coming to rest briefly on the row of Archangels before him for a moment. Gabriel’s face was incredulous, Michael’s cold. Sandalphon was looking at Gabriel, adoringly, while Uriel fiddled with her nails. Only Raphael met his eyes, giving him a wink. Milton blushed a little and smiled, folding his hands behind his back and starting to pace while he spoke.

“Now, you may be thinking that any angel left to their own devices for so long, as Aziraphale has been, with little support from his siblings and no encouragement from his line manager, is bound to have become vulnerable. You may be thinking that, as he was thrown together with another immortal being, the love that resulted must have occurred purely as a result of circumstance, and because the object of those affections is a demon, that love must have been a one-sided affair, remaining hopeless and unreciprocated. For demons cannot love, that is what you have all been told.”

There was another pause, the intense silence in the courtroom continued as every eye in the place concentrated on the black-clad figure of Milton as he walked, and the stiff and stoical angel standing behind him.

“What if I told you that what you have been given to believe just isn’t true? If I told you also that the process of change in the nature of the angel standing here before you was mirrored in that of the demon who acted as his opposite number on Earth? The demon Crowley cannot testify in this court today because he was taken into custody here in Heaven a few hours ago.”

There was a shifting and a rustling as this news was absorbed by the assembled company.

“He was apprehended while he was trying to find and liberate Aziraphale here, and he was doing that because he, too, has fallen in love. Yes, souls and beings, it is true, and we have concrete evidence to prove it. Ramiel, can you present exhibit B to everyone please?”

Ramiel stepped forward and raised the rose he held gently in his hand with Crowley’s tears glittering on its blush pink petals, holding it above his head as he turned to show it to the entirety of the crowd.

“The tears of a demon, shed for the love of an angel. Here in these tears are truth, friendship and…true love. These qualities can build a better world, if people in Heaven and Earth can be allowed to live as they were meant to.”

There was another gasp from the audience and a low hum of chattering broke out, which Sahaquiel silenced with a raised hand and stern look across the auditorium. Seeing that he had the attention of all once more, Milton continued with his speech.

“I can reveal to the court that it was the tears shown to you as Exhibit A, that, when dropped in his eyes, allowed the retrieval of the memories the demon Crowley had taken from him by the Lord Beelzebub. Yes, souls and beings, this is clear evidence of the fact that the most powerful Prince of Hell has been working in concert with the Archangels Gabriel and Michael, organising the theft of the demon’s memories to coincide with the arrest of Aziraphale to separate them as a punishment for loving the Earth and each other.”

Had he been able to curl up into a little ball of embarrassment, Crowley would have done so immediately. In addition to the indignities already heaped upon him by what had been said so far, he hadn’t been aware that he had cried actual tears, much less that they had been taken from him. As it was, with the warmth of Nanael’s steadying hand on his arm to ground him, Crowley endured the terrible ordeal of having his deepest secret known. The muttering of the crowd grew louder as they digested the import of what they were seeing.

Gabriel was arguing with his barrister. He stood up suddenly, and the phrase ‘well if you won’t say it, I will’ was heard over the noise of the crowd. The Archangel had been speaking with Michael about the way in which the trial was going. They were equally angry both at the defence’s argument and the obvious support of the majority of the crowd for it. Michael was of the opinion that the Host was going soft if they were prepared to accept this emotional drivel as the basis for Aziraphale’s defence. Gabriel was angry at what Aziraphale had said and no longer prepared to wait for the process to bring them to the point where Rizoel would get his chance to speak. Both were furious at the exposure of their association with the senior demons. Gabriel pushed his lawyer forcefully down into his vacated seat and walked to near where the defence team were standing, preparing to make their closing speech.

“What is this stunt you’re pulling? Advocating heresy? In Her highest court? You oughta be ashamed of yourselves. _Normal_ angels don’t love demons, it’s obscene, perverted. Angels don’t even _feel_ that kind of love, it’s against the **law** , there’s no room for that kind of thing in Heaven, I won’t allow it.”

His face was purple and he was spluttering in his rage.

‘Your Grace,” said Remiel, “if you would allow us to finish, we can explain…”

Gabriel was just about to launch into a furious tirade at the lawyer for the Defence when everyone became aware of a commotion at the top of the stadium, where the angels’ entrance to the court was situated. A short, thick-set figure was arguing with a soldier who was clearly trying to prevent him from entering. The noise of his cries was audible to everyone in the arena. His presence also alerted everyone to the fact that while the legal drama had been taking place in front of them, behind the crowd, Michael had seen to it that there were soldiers in large numbers stationed at every exit to the court. It was with one of these that the figure was expostulating, shouting and gesticulating with his hands.

***

Nithael had received his invitation to the hearing at the same time as everyone else. It had landed on Aziraphale’s desk in the bookshop, and as soon as he had found it, he had smartened himself up, wished the shop a fond farewell and set off toward the London offices of Heaven. This was the excuse to go home he had been waiting for. His mistake was to adhere to the guidelines given him in the rather terse memo he had received from Michael’s office on the subject of frivolous miracles. Consequently, rather than transporting himself directly into Heaven, he had hailed a black cab that had been passing as he walked out of the door and into Greek Street.

London’s black cabs provide a marvellous service to the inhabitants of the UK capital. In order to drive the distinctive vehicles, the drivers must pass a competency test known as ‘the knowledge’ to prove that they are competent in navigating the capital’s labyrinthine street systems. Unfortunately for the unwary, this means that the unscrupulous driver is also perfectly situated to pull a fast, or perhaps that would be better termed, slow, one on those passengers who are unfamiliar with the city’s topography. Nithael was such a one, that fact being evident to the cabbie as soon as the nervous angel climbed into the vehicle and told him where he wanted to go. The ensuing trip had taken a very long time indeed, the situation aggravated by yet another stoppage on the Underground network that had put the central area into gridlock with additional traffic. The elongated journey had cost the Principality in the region of £500. Distracted, he had paid, although when the cabbie came to look in his money bag later that day he got a very nasty shock indeed.

***

Nithael, arguing with his fellow soldier at the entrance to the court, losing patience and desirous of seeing the love of his life once more, pushed past the body barring his way and ran down the shallow sloping steps to where he could see the group of soldiers in their distinctive fatigues near the front of the angels’ section of the amphitheatre.

Gabriel was still trying to speak.

“It’s not even like _proper_ angels, who know their place and live here in Heaven, would ever think of loving one of their siblings, for Pete’s sake, it just doesn’t happen here…”

He was interrupted by the raucous sounds of the soldier angel bawling his comrade’s name, and stopped speaking when he saw that he had entirely lost his audience.

“Nanael!” shouted Nithael, looking round, frantically, “I’m here, where are ya, you old bastard yeh!”

Nanael, who had been watching the arrival of this soldier in his dress uniform with hope growing in his heart, removed his hand from Crowley’s arm and stood, pushing his way eagerly past his comrades until he reached the aisle between the seating.

“Nith, my Nith! I’m ‘ere you bugger! Oi, Nith, gerrover ‘ere, you big arse!”

The two came together like a pair of enthusiastic puppies of a particularly large and energetic breed. They flung their arms about each other and stared for a moment into one other’s eyes.

“Fuck me, Nithael, but I’ve missed ya!”

And then their faces came together and they were sobbing and kissing through their sobs, and the angels around them were clapping and others were cheering and yet more were kissing their partners in the euphoria of such a beautiful and tender moment between two beings who, on the face of it, were the least likely to be susceptible to such an emotional display.

“Ooh, that’s put the cat amongst the pigeons,” said Miniel to Cherubiel, looking from the soldiers to the aghast countenance of Gabriel, who stood with his mouth flapping around with nothing coming out of it.

Anpiel took the chance to look across at the two disposable demons and wink, receiving a wink back from both that provoked a blush and a pleased smile.

Beelzebub and Dagon, who had been annoyed beyond their limited patience at the news about the return of Crowley’s memories, looked at each other with glee at the imminent humiliation of the Arch-asshole Gabriel, miracled up some popcorn and sat back to watch the show, chewing noisily to annoy Michael and Uriel sitting in an incensed silence next to them.

‘You were saying, your Grace?” said Milton, enjoying the obvious discomfort of the senior angel as he watched the soldiers embracing along with everybody else.

There was no sign of either angel breaking from the kiss, and the cheering and singing that had been stimulated by it was growing louder by the second. Once more, the august figure of Sahaquiel, fast losing patience with this shitshow, rose from his chair and addressed the unruly congregation in his loudest, most apocalyptic voice.

“Will everybody SIT THE FUCK DOWN. I will have ORDER in my courtroom. DESIST AT ONCE or the hearing will be forfeit.”

Nanael and Nithael finished snogging, and with a final lingering kiss, separated and, holding hands, took their places amongst the other soldiers. Crowley shifted over to make room, giving them a lopsided grin, glad to see the focus shift on to someone other than him and Aziraphale for a little while. After a few moments, the other unruly beings settled, and silence fell once more, the only noise being Raphael stretching over to ask if they could have some demonic popcorn, and even they took their seat again with a chastened look after Sahaquiel glared at them.

‘Master Milton, your closing statement, if you would be so good.”

Milton, after having a word of reassurance with Aziraphale and squeezing his shoulder, walked to the front of the dock again and spoke.

“Finally, if I may ask Pravuil to come forward, I have the last piece of the evidence to be presented by the Defence at this time.”

Pravuil appeared carrying an enormous volume, shining and beautiful, bound in leather with gemstones from the far reaches of the universe set in precious metals on its cover. She placed it on the second table beneath where the soul and the angel stood and opened it at the page she had marked days before.

“This is the Book of the Lore,” said Milton, “containing all the commandments issued by the Lord God to Her angels as soon as they were created. The instructions in it are simple, but appear to have been forgotten in favour of a new set of laws laid down by the current Angelic Council at the end of the Great Rebellion. The first and most important one is what concerns us here today. It is simply ‘Thou shalt love’.”

There was a sound like an exhalation and a groan that echoed round the huge court as the assembled beings reacted to this pronouncement

“Our case is, then, members of the jury, that, in loving as he has, Aziraphale has done nothing but obey the primary command of God. This stricture, dating from before the Fall of a third of your number, sees no distinction between angel and demon kind. It is clear from what is written, that love is, above all things, sacrosanct. We contend, then, that if the love between angels is righteous, then, despite the unprecedented nature of the association, the love between an angel and a demon, in the equity provided for by this ancient lore, may be regarded as the same, and as such, is equally blessed.”

Milton was joined by Ramiel and Remiel, the latter of whom lifted a paper to his face and read off the final statement to the Court.

“It is the contention of the defence here today that the cherub Aziraphale is not guilty of the charges made against him. In the first count, dereliction of duty, using the paperwork held here in Heaven, we have proved comprehensively that this is not the case. The second charge has been declared null and void. The third of treason has been negated by the existence of a precedent that implies in equity, the love of an angel for another angel…”

“And/or demon,” put in Ramiel.

“And/or demon,” repeated Remiel, “is protected by the very will of God Herself. In loving the Earth, and a demon, Aziraphale has committed no crime. The defence rests, your honour.”

“But what about the _Law!_ The Law forbids such things. Nothing is stronger than the Law, the whole of Heaven is built upon it”

This came from Gabriel, and was said through gritted teeth as he stood once more and addressed the Defence team, fire in his eyes. Michael stood just behind him and scanned the top of the stadium, eyes narrowed and expression unreadable.

“Ah, Lord Gabriel, this is a court of justice, not of law. Besides, your Grace, in Heaven, it is true, nothing is stronger than the Law, but in the Universe, nothing is stronger than love!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. Next week, the Prosecution cross-examines Aziraphale.


	21. You can’t kidnap officers just because you like the shape of their nose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets his chance to shine in court as he is cross-examined by the Prosecution. After this, things get rapidly out of hand and Crowley feels he must act…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another enormous chapter, lots happening, all good.
> 
> Thanks to my most esteemed Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) for everything and to my friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) for so many things, support and understanding, chiefly.
> 
> We are getting towards the end now but I still have a couple of chapters to write yet. Comments and kudos are always good, to those who are still reading, thank you, I love you all.

_Aziraphale loved him._

Crowley was trying to take in everything that had been said while he sat next to the two soldier angels who were talking eagerly to each other with their arms around one another’s waists.

_Aziraphale loved him._

It was still settling into his mind, all the things Aziraphale had said proudly out loud to his counsel about how being with Crowley had influenced him, how his time speaking with a demon had changed him, how the angel had cared to foster his good opinion. It had altered the demon too, with a slow attrition over time, this unlikely association of supposed opposites. Crowley had been aware of that for a while if he was being honest with himself. Knowing he would meet with Aziraphale and be asked about what he had been doing had forced him to consider his methodology, directed him to work out the loopholes he might exploit, and ultimately led him to the realisation that he could stay on the right side of his infernal masters if he just took the credit for the frequently disgusting and debased things that humans got up to all by themselves. All so that he could look the angel in the eye and ask him for his company without feeling utterly wretched. They had picked at each other, squabbled, fallen out, pushed each other away with hurtful words, then sought each other out again hundreds of times over the many years they had been working on Earth. In all that time they had been in a decaying orbit around each other, growing closer as the years ticked by, united, as it turned out, by a love they could not help and a grudging desire not to disappoint each other. No wonder they were no longer quite what they had started out as being.

_And Aziraphale loved him._

He had been willing to profess it in front of the entirely of the Host, his siblings and his managers. Crowley could still see the tracks of tears on the angel’s cheeks. Aziraphale kept his eyes either on the floor or way above the heads of the audience, his gaze grazing the stars and planets visible from the court. His lips were pressed together, his cheeks pink still and both hands were balled into fists as he waited for his cross-examination by the lawyer for the prosecution.

Crowley longed to speak with him. Just as had always been the case when anything altered in his life, he instinctively turned for solace to the one person who saw him and did not turn away. He needed to speak with Aziraphale, nobody else had ever come close. There were other things he needed just as much, to offer comfort, to soothe and cherish, to share all the eternal affection that was lodged within him for this one being who had always sought him out, through the infinite stress of their connection. Crowley let his breath out with a huff, these feelings were so deeply undemonic he hardly knew what to do with them. They needed time, time together to work things out, time to heal each other’s wounds, time to spend not hurting each other, doing everything, in fact that was very much the opposite of that. There might not be time though, for them, there might not be very much time left at all

Through the minutes that Crowley had been lost in his thoughts, the singing, swaying angels had settled down, and after more pronouncements from Sahaquiel on the subject of an orderly court room, the angelic Judge repeated his call for the Prosecution to begin their cross-examination of the accused. There appeared to be some sort of hold up, and then it became clear that all was not well in the Prosecution camp. Gabriel had been in confabulation with Rizoel for some minutes now. Crowley watched the body language of the two angels, the lawyer tense, Gabriel leaning in, hectoring, his hand raised, index finger in the air. He heard the word ‘circumstantial’ said in a vehement tone by the lawyer, and all of a sudden there were raised voices.

“With the greatest respect, Lord Gabriel, but I cannot. This is not the way in which I am accustomed to prosecute my cases, it goes beyond what I am prepared, as a professional, to undertake…”

“You will do what I damn well tell you to, just who do you think you’re taking to, buddy?”

“No, I will not, I am very sorry — ” he paused and looked Gabriel up and down gravely, apparently assessing what he saw and coming swiftly to his conclusion, “in fact, no, I am not very sorry at all. I don’t like your methods, nor the way in which you have become accustomed to addressing me. It lacks proper respect both for my estate and for the law, and in all conscience, I cannot continue with this - this - _unbalanced_ argument. I no longer wish to be associated either with you or this case.”

“You can’t do that…”

“I think that you will find that I can do exactly that. I thought I had some sympathy for what you were trying to achieve here but I find, on reflection, and after hearing what has transpired, that I have changed my view.”

At this, the diminutive lawyer scanned the seats above him, found what he was looking for and raised his hand in greeting to an angel sitting a few tiers above them. He shucked off his gown leaving it in a pool of purple on the marble flooring. Without glancing back, he walked away from the rostrum and the furious Archangel, and made his way up the stairs, finding a place there next to another seraph whom he immediately embraced and engaged in close conversation. The increased volume of chatter that this outburst provoked swelled and then died away as Sahaquiel signalled once more to the Usher who stood watching in the central arena.

“Silence in court please, silence!” demanded the little red-faced angel, typing industriously into their tablet once the noise died down.

“Lord Gabriel, you will approach the bench please,” said Sahaquiel

***

Aziraphale was trying desperately not to find Crowley’s familiar countenance amongst the multitude of faces that he could see around him. He had wanted his declarations of affection to be made in a private place, not laid bare in front of all these people. When he had allowed himself to think of it, in idle moments of fancy, he had dreamed of a romantic walk, a picnic by the water perhaps, of hand holding and possible kisses. As it was, he knew Crowley would find all of this very hard indeed. He was regretful, would have spared his demon this, if he could have. Poor demon, confounded as he would be by the details of an angel’s devotion without recourse to time alone to think things through. There was an odd kind of gentleness that they had together, an understanding of each other’s tender places, an innate knowledge of when to press and when to leave well alone. The process of the trial had ridden roughshod over this and Aziraphale was determined that, if by some miracle they came though this, he would make sure Crowley had anything he wanted. He would not cajole or press, but give his friend the right to walk away, or resume their old friendship, whatever he felt he needed to be comfortable.

That is not to say that he didn’t have his dreams. He had seen the tears on the rose, remembered the cadences of that voice, ragged with sadness in the public house on the day of the failed apocalypse. He hoped for so much, he felt so very much, it would be something indeed if the object of those tender feelings would accept him and allow him to express that affection in any measure. But he mustn't start dreaming like this, he must attend to the rest of the trial, they were nowhere near the end of this yet. And now Gabriel was shouting at his lawyer and, it looked like… Aziraphale closed his eyes, his heart heavy with dread as Sahaquiel gave the senior Archangel the go-ahead to conduct the cross-examination for the prosecution himself.

***

“Aziraphale, you and your cherub cronies must be very proud of yourselves, mmh?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This… _love_ defence you’ve come up with between you. I was pretty darned impressed, it’s very clever. There’s only one problem with it. It’s all a lie. You’re no stranger to telling lies, are you Aziraphale?”

“Lord Gabriel,” interjected Sahaquiel, “please confine yourself to asking questions that are germane to the proceedings at hand and refrain from ad hominem accusations that are iniquitous to the dignity of this court.”

Aziraphale smiled faintly at this and closed his mouth before he said anything incriminating about the lies he had most definitely told the Archangel over the years, the most recent concerning the whereabouts of a certain Antichrist. That had been worth it, he reckoned, he had no regrets on that score.

Gabriel inclined his head to the judge, submitting without looking contrite in any way and then fixed his violet eyes on Aziraphale once more.

“The argument of the defence hinges on the supposed _true love_ that exists between this, this - _angel_ here and the notorious Demon Crowley. The court has been shown evidence of this _love_.”

He said this last word as if it were something disgusting, and his face twisted with his feelings as his mouth closed with a snap on the end of his sentence.

“But what if it could be proved that there was nothing either true or unique about this so called _relationship_. What if it is just another in a long line of similar associations that the Principality Aziraphale has conducted over his time acting as Heaven’s representative on Earth? What would that mean for the defence of this angel’s actions that you have been offered here today?”

Gabriel walked to the table where the evidence was laid out and picked up a bulky file, opening it and pulling out a stack of images.

“I took it upon myself to revisit the Earth Observation tapes to see what else I might find out about the activities of this angel. It turns out there was a lot to find.”

Harahel turned to Raduarial next to him with a hand over his mouth. Gabriel had sent him away on what had felt like a fool’s errand to the records store just a few days ago. He had wondered at the time why the senior angel had wanted him out of the way, now he knew. He felt sick as he saw Gabriel in front of him, leafing through the images, holding them up one by one and then slapping them on to the table.

“These are pictures of the prisoner you see before you now with a variety of humans, both men and women, in close conversation, walking, sitting, ingesting gross matter both solid and liquid over protracted periods. On close examination, it would appear that some of these associations lasted for a considerable length of time, in terms of what I understand to be the brief span of human lives. It is clear from what I have found here that the debauched creature before you had been having relations unbecoming of an angel with humans for hundreds of years. I put it to you that there is nothing unique in whatever disgusting _relationship_ Aziraphale has with his depraved demon lover, it is just another unseemly connection that this lust filled creature has occupied his time with, and one furthermore that proves his lack of allegiance to us here in Heaven. What do you say to this, Aziraphale? Do you deny it?”

“No, Gabriel, I do not.”

Aziraphale’s voice was icy, the expression on his face the most severe that Crowley had ever seen it. He snapped his fingers once, and the tiny reading glasses that he was accustomed to wear in the bookshop appeared on his face. He snapped again and there was a sheaf of papers in his hand and a copy of a book that Crowley recognised from the shelves dedicated to works of philosophy that Aziraphale kept nearest to the back room where they habitually sat.

Crowley sat forward, keen to see what the angel would do next, worry and annoyance making an uneasy mixture in his gut. The Archangel Gabriel, that monument of pompous fuckwittery, was trying to shame Aziraphale, _again_. After all the slurs about his shape and his competency and commitment, now it was the turn of his sexual habits, which was not a little ridiculous in Crowley’s opinion. Gabriel stood there now, openly sneering at Aziraphale, waiting for a response to his question. The angel in his turn had assumed a particular expression that Crowley was all too familiar with. It was reminiscent of the occasion during which Aziraphale had spent a good twenty minutes speaking to one of Westminster Council’s elected representatives at a public meeting about the proposed closure of his local public library. After the angel’s lecture on the vital importance of literacy and community engagement in the lives of children from low income families, delivered crisply in his most withering tone of voice, the unfortunate official had retired, looking cowed and browbeaten, and the proposal had subsequently been vetoed without the need for any further celestial compulsion. Aziraphale was a powerhouse when he wanted to be, clever and intransigent in equal measure. Crowley felt a surge of anger at this latest attempt to discredit his angel by the sleazy bastard who had tried to murder his best friend. He gazed with a certain amusement at his friend whom he knew had manifested those ridiculous spectacles _purely so that he could look at Gabriel disapprovingly over them_ , and consoled himself with the knowledge that the angel probably had things in hand for the moment. He sat back, put his feet up and prepared to appreciate the angel’s rhetorical skills. Aziraphale took a breath, closed his eyes and looked particularly pained before opening them again and beginning to speak, his mouth primly enunciating the words with a deadly precision.

“Those _people_ , Gabriel, that you have images of me spending time with, those were my _friends_. I am not about to deny the many _friendships_ I have been fortunate enough to enjoy with remarkable humans over the years, no.”

“Nice try sunshine, but you don’t fool me. You’ve been fornicating your way through the local population down there for centuries. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, or those of the Host assembled here today.”

Aziraphale glanced upwards. At first Crowley thought it was his habitual reference to Heaven, something he was wont to do when he was conflicted, then he remembered that he was _in_ Heaven, and what Aziraphale was doing was _rolling his eyes_ in a clear and obvious sign of exasperation at an Archangel.

“Do I have to give you a lesson in love and friendship, Gabriel? Really?”

Gabriel looked affronted at the tone in which this was delivered and opened his mouth to respond but was cut short by Aziraphale’s voice that cut through the air like a scalpel.

“Clearly, it would appear that I do.”

***

“And this one, Aziraphale?”

“Ah, such a clever chap, Muhammed ibn Musa al-Khwarizimi, that would be, um, well, he excelled at so many things, mathematics, astronomy…”

Aziraphale wasn’t allowed to continue before the Archangel thrust another picture at him.

‘This one?”

“Sappho, wonderful Sappho, lyric poetry, extraordinary woman…”

“And here you are, eating, again, with a group of men, what are you supposedly encouraging here, Aziraphale, mmmh?”

Aziraphale took the picture and studied it

“Leonardo, and his friend Luca with other friends at his home in Milan. Da Vinci was many things but is perhaps best known now for his contribution to the visual arts. His friend, Pacioli, was a mathematician…”

Aziraphale’s explanation was interrupted once again by the sarcastic tones of Gabriel’s voice.

“These _friends_ , Aziraphale, you are claiming that what you shared with them was, what kind of love, now?”

“As I said, Gabriel, it can be called Philia, or brotherly love, but given my nature, and my vocation on Earth, there was also Storge and perhaps a little Agape. They were like children to me, even if most often they were far cleverer than I.”

Crowley was angry as he watched the willful misunderstanding being extended towards Aziraphale by a snide and contemptuous Archangel. Every sentence that he uttered to the smaller angel was laced with disdain and it made something in Crowley boil with fury to have to sit and listen to it. This was what Aziraphale had been subject to for years, it was clear from every expression that crossed his face as he made his arguments in a controlled and careful voice that he was very much accustomed to the treatment currently being meted out to him.

Aziraphale had begged and been granted the indulgence of Sahaquiel and the court to explain the different types of human love according to classifications laid down in ancient Greek thought. He had referred particularly to Plato’s Symposium for the philosopher’s discourse on love, outlining how this had influenced Aziraphale in his own thinking about the way in which he expressed his love for the humans who were his charge. He had a copy of this book clutched in his right hand and had quoted from it with the intention of getting the thick-headed Archangel to understand his dealings with the humans with whom he had become closest. Aziraphale had explained to the court that his intention in developing friendships on Earth had always been to encourage the development of human thought in all disciplines as a way of bringing people closer to God through intellectual endeavour, and that the love he had shown them in order to achieve this was that of a parent or brother.

He had told Crowley one drunk night in Athens, in an increasingly fond ramble as he slumped further and further against the demon’s shoulder, that he viewed such activities as part of God’s plan for the use of the knowledge that Crowley had given the human race.

“ _’_ _S funny to think, Cr-Crawley,_ _‘_ _slike we_ _’_ _re partners in the_ _‘_ _neffable wossname._ _”_

He had nudged Crowley with an elbow at this point, nearly knocking him off the bench they were both seated on.

“ _You gave them the knowledge thingy, fruit, y’_ _know, now I_ _’_ _m_ _‘_ _ncouragin_ _’ ‘_ _em to ushe it. Definitely_ _‘_ _neffable_ _…”_

After which pronouncement he had promptly passed out. Crowley had been furious at the use of the word ‘ineffable’ in connection with himself, and at the suggestion that he might have anything at all to do with the exercise of God’s will. Such a notion had irritated him so much he hadn’t spoken to the angel for a long time after that, despite seeing him at debates and symposiums that they had both, rather inevitably, been invited to. Over the years though, watching Aziraphale at work and frequently forming friendships with the same individuals, such as Leonardo, who had been fond of them both, he had come to realise that there was something of the truth in what the angel had suggested to him that night.

Now he was watching his angel try to explain the special joy of human friendship to a sceptical Archangel who was Hell-bent on proving that every association Aziraphale had made whilst doing his job had been for the sake of his own sexual pleasure. It was all rather sickening. Crowley had seen Aziraphale with his friends on occasion, and even with those with whom he had been closest, such as the industrious composer Schubert in early nineteenth century Vienna or Oscar Wilde in London, later in the century, there had always been a sense of him holding himself back, never getting in too deep and withdrawing when any connection threatened to become too intense. Crowley had shared these limitations. Fond of humans as he was, he had been careful to refrain from allowing any mortal to become too involved with him. For all of their superficial attractiveness, prolonged exposure to either angel or demon made any but the most exceptional mortal beings deeply uncomfortable, necessitating constant lies and subterfuge, which became wearisome after a while. Additionally, for Crowley, and, he suspected, Aziraphale too, the pain of making meaningful connections with people they could only know for such a relatively brief time became something they wished to avoid, after their first experiences of this when the world was young. As a consequence of these feelings, they both kept to a singular existence, each understanding the essential loneliness of their condition. This, after all, was one of the things that had brought them together in the first place, when their mutual suspicion of each other was at its highest.

Gabriel was now going through the Earth Observation pictures he had produced one by one, asking Aziraphale to identify the individuals in them and state what his purpose in being friends with them had been and then barely listening to the response he was given before moving on to the next image. Aziraphale had begun the exercise with his usual willingness to please but as the questioning had progressed, Crowley could see that his patience was fraying. He was just in the process of outlining the achievements of Gandhi when Gabriel interrupted him again.

“What about genitals, Aziraphale?”

There was a snigger from Beelzebub at this, and they nudged Dagon in delight. The prospect of attending a court case in Heaven had filled the Prince of Hell with dread. They had steeled themself to endure an uncomfortable few hours in company they despised listening to sanctimonious statements on sin and piety. What they had not expected was the defiance that Aziraphale was currently exhibiting nor any kind of diatribe on angelic dick. They took another handful of popcorn, passed the tub to Dagon and sat back to enjoy the fun.

“I beg your pardon?”

Aziraphale was reaching the end of his patience. He had been pushed around, locked up, ignored and belittled and now Gabriel was asking him what he kept in his underwear. The Earth angel had little time for notions of gender, had manifested as male and soft to make his way through the world with the most expediency and least offence that he could, but he had no real attachment to it and certainly didn't think of himself as a man. Gabriel _had_ to know why he presented as he did, he did it himself when manifesting on Earth, as was fairly evident from the cut of his suits. Crowley had laughed about it to him one day, nudging him and asking what he thought the Archangel might be compensating for, making Aziraphale blush and stutter before he admitted a guilty giggle. It was obvious to him now that this question was being asked as a way of humiliating him in front of the whole of Heaven, and he found that he really had reached the limit of his tolerance for the way in which he was being treated. Aziraphale understood all at once that God’s Messenger standing there before him with an expression of contempt marring his blandly handsome features was nothing more than an obnoxious bully, and a person properly beneath his notice.

“It’s a simple enough question Aziraphale, do you manifest genitalia, or to keep it simple for you, do you make the Effort?”

“I do, Gabriel, if it’s any of your business, but that’s purely for my tailor, as you very well know.”

Gabriel turned to look at the jury and raised his eyebrows.

“You’re fucking your _tailor_?”

“What? No! He has seven children.”

“ _Doesn_ _’_ _t stop some people_ ,” muttered Crowley, thinking uncharitably of Oscar Wilde.

Aziraphale bristled visibly.

“Do you _really_ believe, Gabriel, that I have been running around on Earth for the last six thousand years engaging in coition with human beings, willy-nilly?”

Crowley choked and sank further down in his chair. ‘ _Willy-nilly_ ’. The fact that a ripple of amused reaction passed through the crowd around him at this point really wasn’t helping him deal with the snort that was threatening to explode out of his throat if he wasn’t careful, and he really needed to avoid drawing anyone’s attention to himself right now. Aziraphale, oblivious as ever to any kind of double entendre, looked up in irritation for a moment before turning his attention back to the matter in hand. Crowley placed his hand against his mouth, smiling around his fingers at his furious, adorable bastard of an angel.

‘Don’t misunderstand me,” continued Aziraphale, “physical love is a beautiful thing, a delightful way for people to demonstrate their affection and give each other pleasure, and a wonderful blessing from the Almighty to those she loves best.”

He paused and raised a brow at this point, looking archly over at his interrogator.

“And I _have_ had my offers, over the years, believe you me, but I always made sure to direct anyone kind enough to think of me in that way to others who were better placed than I to take proper care of them. Besides, my heart has long been spoken for, and where my heart does not lie, I have never been disposed to tarry. Does that answer your question, my Lord?”

There was a short burst of applause at this from the angels’ side of the amphitheatre, which Aziraphale acknowledged with a pleased expression. Gabriel looked thunderous, a little vein in his temple had started to throb visibly and his face had a high colour. He screwed his features up into an expression of extreme distaste.

“You disgust me, Aziraphale.”

“I am no stranger to your disgust, you have rarely spared me in this estimation of my character. However, I do not think the expression of it is at all helpful to our learned friend here, nor to the members of the jury, it hardly represents a cogent legal argument, now, does it?”

Aziraphale delivered this put down with a smug expression that Crowley was intimately familiar with. He had last seen it when its owner was busy ingesting angel food cake in a pointed manner in a motorway service station. It only served to heighten the anger of the incensed Archangel that faced him who now gritted his teeth and raised his voice, turning his head to appeal to the jury members.

“I put it to you, Aziraphale, that there is nothing unique at all about your unnatural feelings for this demon, that you are a debauched individual who has spent your time as Heaven’s agent on Earth doing nothing more than chasing your own pleasure. These so called friendships are wrong. There is only one type of love permissible for an angel, only one proper love, and you, Aziraphale, are no better than the disgusting demon who has corrupted you.”

“No, Gabriel, it is you who are wrong. Wrong about me, but that is only to be expected, given your predilection to willfully misjudge me. More importantly, you are wrong about love, so very wrong that I wonder how you have managed to come to this state of being.”

“Don’t you lecture me you little…”

“Let me finish, Gabriel. This is a court, I have the right to answer my interrogation, that is how jurisprudence operates, if I am not mistaken.”

Their squabble was interrupted by the voice of Sahaquiel, who had been trying to get a word in edgeways for a few minutes.

“The Defendant should be given the opportunity to speak, my Lord, and then you may continue your cross examination.”

“Go on then, Aziraphale, bore us some more, why don’t you?”

“ _Thank you_.”

This was said with such asperity that Crowley was surprised that Gabriel didn’t recoil at the burn of it but he just stood there, radiating disparagement while Aziraphale continued to speak.

“There is no such thing as one proper love, it’s a ridiculous notion. If there is one thing have learned from my time on Earth, it is that love is both infinite and varied.”

He looked out and spoke to the angels in particular, gazing up at his audience, which remained wrapt and focused upon his small, keen, shifting figure as he spoke with all the urgency of his conviction and made his plea directly to them.

“I have tried to explain to the court how one human society defined the different kinds of love, because I felt it might help you understand, but even the definitions I gave you don’t encompass all that love is and can be. Humans are astonishing because they have an endless capacity for love, they love their parents and their children, their partners, pets and friends, and when they need more, they find it in themselves, it never runs out. And, well, I myself believe that is just the same for us, and for demons, if it comes to that.”

He was addressing the angels directly now, his face full of entreaty, willing them listen and understand.

“Whatever happens here, don’t let them tell you there’s only one way of loving, all love is valid, and love truly given cannot fail to lead us, through attraction, to the spiritual beauty of the object of our affections. It is what we are made to do, and there is nothing whatsoever wrong with it. What’s more, we should all be free to love whoever we choose, restricting that is wrong, whatever those in charge would like to tell you.”

“Very good, Aziraphale, I am sure they are all really impressed with you and your heresies. Come now, enlighten me, what kind of love is it that you have for this demon you’re so fond of, which of those categories fits that unnatural feeling?”

“Why, all of them, of course!”

Aziraphale stared at his inquisitor as if he had asked the most stupid question in all of creation, as if it was obvious what his answer would be, if only he, Gabriel, were capable of proper understanding.

“Over the years, I believe, I’ve felt them all,” he continued, speaking confidentially, as if to a friend now, explaining, his hands gesturing widely to indicate the massive space his love had always occupied, “he’s very dear to me, you know, and I find I really don’t care what you think on the subject, Gabriel.”

“Well, that’s because you are an aberration, there’s something wrong with you. And all of this evidence you have presented is right out of line. You talk about human love, as if that is comparable to what we have, to our angelic love. It isn’t relevant, and you would know that, if you were in any way normal, but you’re not, and what you are is a treasonous individual. I can’t think why it is you haven’t…”

“If I may interrupt here, Your Grace.”

The voice of Milton, raised above its usual soft cadence stopped the trajectory of Gabriel’s rant as it hurtled towards its ungenerous conclusion.

“Oh here we go, the human poet wants to get his oar in. Well? What is it now?”

“Only to say that there is no difference between the substance of angels and humans, and of demons too. We are all made of starstuff and were formed by the Almighty to fulfil Her mysterious purposes. The love felt by human, angel, demon, it is the same in essence and in quality, surely you must know this?”

“You don’t get to tell me what I know. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

Milton dodged this question and continued, straightening his back as he dug his metaphorical heels in. He had argued with pompous ideologues over orthodoxy in the past, this was just a slightly more elevated one.

“And human love is the question here, is it not? The contention is that Aziraphale loves his demon, and that this is not a sin. The love I speak of was born and grew not here in Heaven, nor in the chambers of Hell, but between them both in the sphere of humanity. There is a saying we humans have when we describe a pure and enduring love between two people. We call such a union a match made in Heaven. In this case, my Lord, what we are dealing with is a match made on Earth.”

He paused to let this sink in, rather pleased at the neatness of his own argument, and then continued.

“It is most important, therefore, for the court and the jury to understand the realm of human love and also to know that it differs not from the love of the angels. Love is love, wherever it starts and whatever heart it lies within.”

“I don’t, I won’t accept that! You’re no better than the rest of them, plotting with those cherubs to overthrow the Council and take power for yourselves. How dare you stand there and advocate for this perversion. I know love and this is not it, it’s unnatural, it’s perverted and disgusting. Demons don’t love, so it follows that whatever he is feeling it isn’t that. It’s lust and it’s filthy and wrong and I…”

“Oi, wankwingzzz!”

Gabriel turned and was confronted by the smartly suited svelte figure of Beelzebub who had been listening intently to this latest exchange and had decided that they had heard quite enough.

“Much azzz I hesitate to get myzzelf involved, and little azz I care for either of the traitorzz, I take exczeption to what you are zzaying here about demonzz. We love, when we choozze to, it’s juzt that we don’t go on about it like you lot do. And you,” they reached up and took the surprised Archangel by the chin briefly to still him, and then slapped his face quite hard, the shock of flesh on flesh ringing out across the auditorium, “are a fucking hypocrite.”

Gabriel’s hand flew to his cheek and his face flushed with colour that as quickly drained away leaving him starkly pale as he gazed at Beelzebub’s dark countenance in front of him. There was a gasp across the court as the reality what had just happened became apparent to those watching. The room grew tense as Archangel and Prince of Hell glared at each other.

“You. Groped. Me. You did. You azzked me to meet to dizcuzz polizy and you laid your hand on me **without my conzz** **ent**.”

Aziraphale looked from one to the other of the figures before him and a smile spread slowly across his face. This was just too good. He couldn’t wait to speak with Crowley about this particular revelation. He was trying to find the demon’s face in the audience when Beelzebub spoke again.

“Your Honour, I szhould like to zubmit for the conzzideration of the court the fact that I kicked the angel of the Prozzecution here in the knackerzz.”

The laughter, when it came, began with Raphael, but it was a mere heartbeat before other voices joined them, and then the volume of it was growing, and when Gabriel looked, all he could see was jostling figures and open mouths with perfect teeth bared in the grimace of jocularity. As his dread and confusion grew, looking across the crowd, so with it rose the cacophony of amusement, gentle to start with, chuckling, warm but steadily increasing, louder, wilder, unconstrained as people nudged and swayed into each other and their collective joy was fully and devastatingly unleashed. The only solemn faces were those of Sandalphon, Uriel — and there was Michael’s incandescent fury, at him as well as the rest of the Host. Who were laughing. At him. It was intolerable. This was not happening, or if he was faced by circumstance to admit that it was, he could not, would not, allow it to continue.

“ENOUGH!” he bellowed, “this trial is OVER!”

The laughter continued, and Aziraphale joined in. He could see Crowley now amidst the convulsing bodies of the soldiers and the sight of his grinning face warmed him from the inside out, causing a blush to appear across his cheeks.

Gabriel was incensed, he whirled round and fixed Michael with his eye, shouting above the clamour of angelic laughter and Sahaquiel and the Ushers’ pleas for quiet and order.

“ ** _Plan C, Michael, Plan. Fucking. C! It’s showtime!_** ”

Michael unfurled her wings and flew to the judge’s dais, landing neatly in front of Sahaquiel and scanning the horizon. She waved her hand and amplified her voice, its patrician tones echoing around the huge, drifting amphitheatre filled with angels and souls.

“ **By the power vested in me as Chair of the Angelic Council, and Commander in Chief of Heaven’s Armed Forces, I now declare a state of martial law. This legal farce is null and void. You are surrounded by troops and Special Forces loyal to your administration. Prepare to leave now in an orderly fashion. Anyone causing trouble will be detained with whatever force my troops deem necessary**.”

This announcement caused a wave of shouting and dissent to erupt amongst the angels, overtaking the laughter that was dying away rapidly as people realised what was happening. Now Michael was gesturing to a figure across from her and pointing at Aziraphale, snapping her fingers in her irritation.

“Cerviel, here, look at me you moron! Get the Principality back to his cell, and I’ll be along later to deal with him.”

She fixed Beelzebub and Dagon with a beady stare

“Denizens of Hell, kindly fuck off back to where you came from.”

There was quiet for a moment and then the chanting began. Banners were raised. Beelzebub and Dagon remained where they were seated, congenitally disinclined to act on directions given by Michael, of all people, and keen to see what was going to happen next. The Erics were edging away, reluctant to be caught in any cross fire and still hopeful of a little interdepartmental liaison with a certain cutie they had their eye on.

“ _We’re not leaving Michael, do your worst_.”

This came from Miniel who stepped forward with Cherubiel, chin high, bow in hand.

“I and my Choir will not stand for this, and we _will_ protect our brother. Stand your troops down if you want to avoid a kicking, sister. I am not one for messing about when it comes to it. _Just try me_.”

“That goes for me too, guys, don’t think that my rank will stop me from joining the opposition.”

This came from Raphael, who stood to saunter away from where Gabriel remained, grinning in an unhinged fashion at the ring of soldiers that surrounded the arena, the mark of Beelzebub’s hand still red upon his cheek, Sandalphon and Uriel at his back.

The Cherubim in the audience were manifesting their wings, as were angels from some other choirs. The atmosphere in the court became sickeningly tense as the reality of the situation they were in asserted itself amongst the Host. The soldiers and black-clad Special Forces Troops who were advancing down the various steps between the seating appeared to be sizing up the opposition that was arraying itself against them.

“NO! You mustn’t, not in my name, let them take me, this isn’t worth another war!”

This was directed at Miniel by Aziraphale, who was standing now with his arms outstretched as if asking to be handcuffed. Crowley rose up in his seat. _What did that self-sacrificing idiot think he was doing now?_

Crowley could see that, whatever resentments had been building up amongst the rebellious Choirs of Heaven, things were coming to a head, and looking at it from where he was sitting, this wasn’t going to end well. It was time, if he was any judge, for him to step in and do what he knew best, get them both out of there and away. Crowley leaned in and spoke into Nanael’s ear, who had taken his arm away from Nithael’s middle and was busy looking about him, as if judging how best he and his little band of military refuseniks could get involved.

“Nanael, cover me, I’m going to get him, would you do that for us?”

Nanael squinted at him, assessing what he might be asking for a moment, before nodding.

“Yeah, okay mate, go for it, we’ll keep them off you ‘slong as we can. You’d better go, if you’re goin’. Good luck, Crowley.”

He started speaking quickly to his comrades about him, gesturing to Crowley and then Aziraphale where he stood making his plea. The soldiers turned and looked at the demon as he spoke, nodding and rising from their seats.

Crowley grabbed the beret and wrenched it off his head, flung the glasses to one side, shook out his hair and climbed on to the back of his seat. He paused a moment, teetering a little and then pushed himself upwards with a thrust of his thigh muscles, manifesting his wings as he did so. They were in perfectly groomed, as usual, and the magnificence of their dark span flared stark against the white all around him. There was a chorus of ‘woaaaaah’ from the angels behind him as they saw his adamantine shape launch into the air.

Gabriel didn't notice at first. He was facing away from where the soldiers were sitting, so he did not see when the shadow of Crowley’s great black wings fell across his back.

“Come on people,” he clapped his hands and walked backwards for a few paces, “party’s over, out you go and keep it orderly now.”

There was a heavy whomping sound as Crowley’s wings beat the air steadily to gain height. He thought about tucking his feet up but then he saw Gabriel's seal-like slicked back hair beneath him and dropped one foot as he flew past, clipping the back of the Archangel’s head as he sailed over him sending him staggering forward for a crashing few steps until he caught his balance.

“Oops, didn’t see you there, arsehole,” he laughed out as he flew onwards. Then he looked ahead to where Aziraphale still stood on his rock with his hands in front of him as if in supplication, looking across at Miniel and Cherubiel, who had locked eyes with Michael.

“ **Angel!** ”

Aziraphale jerked his head round and caught sight of Crowley in flight, bearing down on him. He had been feeling rather odd for the last few minutes. It was a fizzy kind of feeling that started in his toes and worked its way through him, a fiery, unstoppable wave of sensation. For a few seconds he believed he might be going to faint, but seeing Crowley again, come for him and on his side, stirred something deep within him. With a full body rush the sensation overran him and everything he had once been took him up and remade him. Closing his eyes, he Looked within himself and Saw what he now was, something old and new in equal measure. He shuddered and opened his eyes, a Principality no longer.

“ _Crowley._ Oh, Good Lord, whatever do you think you are doing?”

“Coming to get _you_ , you idiot. Manifest your wings.”

“What?”

“I said, _manifest your wings_ , we’re leaving, Alpha Centauri, we’ll fly.”

He gestured upwards as he prepared to land next to his angel, wings beating at his back as he slowed.

“Time to go, angel. This is no place for fucking heroics. Michael – _look at her_ , she’s out of control – she’ll _kill_ you.”

“But if I could just…”

“ _For the last time_ , work with me, angel, you can’t fucking stay here, you’ll _die_ , I need you to come with me, _now_!”

Aziraphale’s face brightened, his course of action clear to him at last. He divested himself of the tailcoat with its silly medal, ripped off the hated bow tie and opened the top two buttons of his shirt so that he could breathe. Then he tilted his head back and wiggled his shoulders, unfolding his wings from where they lay, all four of them. As he came into his power, he felt himself retrieve the pieces of his outward self that he had always chosen, and he smiled to feel so right again, and with that smiling face, greeted Crowley as he landed on the rock beside him.

“ _Hello, my dear, it is so very good to see you!_ ”

The demon and the angel stood facing each other for a moment. Crowley thought he had never seen his angel appear so _light_. His face glowed, the eyes, looking on him with unbearable fondness, a bright cerulean blue. The change wrought in him had brought back the curls that had been missing from his head, but longer, as if they had been growing there, secretly, through all the time they had been shorn away. The hair was a tousled mane of white now, falling back from his forehead, although there was one spiral ringlet that was flirting with an eyebrow, and the waves and tendrils clustered around his ears and sprang down to his collar in a bright profusion. His middle too, swelled gently as it had been wont to do, back to its familiar comfortable shape, the way the angel preferred to keep it.

Aziraphale gloried in the sight of Crowley restored to him. The demon’s flame red hair long and messy around his shoulders, as it had been in ancient times. His eyes were full of all the feelings he usually liked to hide, lambent with a softness in their entreaty as he took both of Aziraphale’s hands in his and gripped them for a moment. He smiled that rare true smile, and Aziraphale saw the dimple that he loved so very much there in his cheek.

“Come with me angel, we haven’t much time. I know you probably don’t…”

Aziraphale cut him off, leaning towards him, making sure that he could hear.

“Yes. Yes, I will, yes. Let’s go my darling, let’s try.”

He squeezed Crowley’s hands again, trying to put all his feeling into the gesture. Crowley’s eyes glowed.

“Nnnnegh Yeah, right, good, er, yeah. Better get going, this is all about to kick off and I don’t fancy our chances. Together then, come what may?”

“Together.”

***

Gabriel sat in his seat next to Sandalphon and Uriel, holding the back of his head and scowling at the angel and demon where he could see them on their rock. He was surprised to be distracted then by the figure of Sahaquiel walking towards him, wig in hand.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Things are afoot, I have received directions, the trial is to continue but I have been relieved of my duties. I can’t say I am sorry. You have misstepped I believe. Don’t say I didn’t warn you before this whole thing started. I never did think it was wise.”

He walked away and took a seat, watching the stand-off with his intelligent eyes.

The court was in chaos. Soldier angels took their posts as instructed at each entrance and down the steps between the seating. Seraphim, Cherubim, Dominions, Thrones and Powers had risen from their seats, wings manifest and bristling with energy. The air crackled with localised lightning as angel confronted angel. There was chanting and singing. Some of the Host stayed frozen where they had spent the trial, frightened at the presence of the soldiers and the sudden belligerence of some of the choirs. Souls cowered where they sat, unsure of what to do, some wanting to run, others wondering if they could possibly join the rebels. Michael marched around on the Judge’s dais shouting orders to her troops.

There was a slow crescendo of tension building, heavy and sinister when suddenly there was a sharp burst of sound. Michael, having had her back to them previously as she instructed her troops, turned and saw Crowley hand in hand with Aziraphale, about to take off. She shouted to get the attention of the soldiers nearest to the pair.

“Urgh, how did that _bastard_ escape? Stop them! Fire at will if you have to. Bring them down, they must not be allowed to leave!”

Furious and frustrated at the lack of speed in the response of the soldiers, Michael raised her own hand to strike the angel and demon couple down as she saw them tense in preparation to take flight together. Miniel had taken an arrow and laid it across her bow, nocking the end of it into the bowstring and drawing it into tension, the head of it vibrating slightly against the yew wood under her hand. She closed one eye and sighted along the shaft to the figure of Michael, preparing to stay the hand of the soldier Archangel before she fired upon the pair of renegades. She was deep in the desperate stress of imminent violence, risking all in her urge to protect, when a mighty voice, irresistible in its authority, was felt more than heard. The strange harmonics vibrated through the air, giving pause to all who perceived it.

**CEASE THIS AT ONCE!**

Michael dropped her hand. Miniel lowered her bow. Aziraphale clutched Crowley’s arm to stay their leap into the air.

There was a shimmer of light at the centre of the court and a white robed figure appeared, great wings wide and stately. The figure landed and its snow-haired head looked directly across at Aziraphale and Crowley.

Metatron, the Voice of God, was among them.

“ **I am come with an announcement,** ” he said, turning his head to take in the assembled company and the chaos they found themselves in.

“ **Thou art to desist from this show of strength, and take thy seats once more, to bear witness.** ”

“Come on angel,” muttered Crowley, “let’s get out of here while they’re standing there like numpties.”

“Yes, let’s go, my dearest, I don’t trust him one bit after last time…”

Metatron turned to face them and fixed them with a gimlet eye that shone out from beneath a lowering brow. Aziraphale had forgotten just how formidable he was when properly manifested.

“ **Aziraphale of the Cherubim and the Demon Crowley, thou canst not leave. Prepare thyselves, for it is time to receive thy judgement for all that thou hast done.** ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a nice cliffhanger…
> 
> I just wanted Aziraphale to stand up to Gabriel for once, so I wrote him doing that. Did I bring Beelzebub all the way up from Hell just so that they could slap Gabriel round his smug chops? You bet I did!
> 
> People mentioned
> 
> Muhammed ibn Musa al-Khwarizimi, (c.780 – 850) CE Persian polymath who wrote influential works on mathematics, astronomy and geography. His name was Latinised as Algorithmi, so you can see he is still influential to this day.
> 
> Sappho (c.630 – 570 BC) Archaic Greek poet who lived on the Isle of Lesbos, known for her beautiful lyric poetry, amongst other things.
> 
> Leonardo da Vinci (1452 – 1519) artist and polymath. Canonically a friend of both Aziraphale and Crowley and who created portraits of them both that can be joined together as a couple portrait, so he obviously picked up the vibes and knew two idiots in love when he saw them.
> 
> Luca Pacioli (1447 – 1517) mathematician. He and Leonardo collaborated on the book Divina Proportione in the 1490s when the artist was living in Milan.
> 
> Mahatma Gandhi (1869 – 1948) lawyer and advocate of nonviolent resistance in his campaign for India’s independence from British rule.


	22. I don’t intend to let you go, no-one can take you, I won’t let them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley are cross-examined by the Metatron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to my Beta person [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) for all her wonderfulness and my friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) for coming along with me on this journey.
> 
> All comments and kudos are very much welcomed. Keep safe, share the love.

Crowley knew a lot of things about Aziraphale, he had spent a goodly part of his lifetime looking and learning so that he might anticipate needs and wants and earn himself a smile or a soft look and whatever he could tolerate of the angel’s approbation. He knew that Aziraphale liked a robust tea in the mornings, broken orange pekoe for preference, but in the afternoon the choice would be something milder, more fragrant, Keemun or Darjeeling, perhaps. He knew the angel had Views on coffee but might be tempted to a demi-tasse after a particularly rich meal. He was aware of his contradictions, that he liked expensive dark chocolate from Belgium or Switzerland, with a high cocoa solids content but could easily demolish a comically large bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk over an afternoon while reading, absently breaking off square after square until searching fingers encountered the empty wrapper and he looked up, astonishment written on his face as if he could not imagine how such a thing might have come to pass. Crowley took pains to listen, remember what he was told, noticed the small things, the shape of the angel’s hands, the curve of his cheek, the fact that he wore his pointless spectacles low on his nose because his lashes were so long that they left smears on the lenses, and the particular huff that he made when he cleaned them as he absently did, on a pocket handkerchief he kept for that purpose, folded neatly on his desk. All these things and more he knew, and he had hoarded this knowledge over the years, kept all of it close by him for reference, as an act of devotion. What he had never seen before, was anything like this.

The angel had stepped neatly in front of him, four wings spread to such an extent that he could not see past them. Where he stood, he had a faceful of warm feathers, the fragrance that had accompanied their opening blooming around his head along with a fine plume of powder down.

“Judge me if you will, but leave him **_alone_**.”

Aziraphale’s voice was firm, at a lower pitch than usual with an edge of something in it that verged towards wrath.

“Aziraphale, the directions I have are clear, you must both submit to this process.”

The Metatron, standing with his arms folded directly in front of the rock where the angel was shielding the demon, met the tone of Aziraphale’s voice with a stern quality in his own, brooking no argument.

“ _Angel_ , what are you _doing_? We need to _leave_ ,” hissed Crowley.

“I’m protecting you, dear. We can’t leave. Don’t you feel it? They’ve put some sort of shield over all of us.”

And right enough, when Crowley looked up he could see the light from the stars overhead refracting oddly, suggesting a curve of something above them only visible if you squinted at it sideways. He followed the obtuse glint radiating off it, and saw that it covered the entire arena. They were trapped.

Aziraphale put out an arm, reaching behind him between his upper and lower set of wings to find Crowley, his sleeve, then his hand, taking it and holding fast as he adjusted his stance, wings held back to block the demon from the other angel’s view. The hand holding his was shaking slightly, Crowley could feel the tremors and the quick intakes of breath that accompanied the trembling. The angel was frightened. Hell, _he_ was frightened, but he squeezed back and felt Aziraphale’s posture straighten even further before he spoke again.

“And I say again, I will submit, but you must _leave him alone_ , he has suffered enough from your judgements. Let him _go_.”

“Aziraphale, no! You don’t need to do this.”

Crowley stepped to the side and put his head round the mantled wings.

“Oi, Enoch, give it a rest. Don’t you think he’s been through enough? Blame me if you’re going to blame anyone, the whole bloody thing was my idea in the first place.”

“ _Crowley_ , stop that at once!”

Aziraphale shifted position and raised his wings higher, shielding the demon from view once more.

“I insist that I alone be judged for this. We are in Heaven, you have no jurisdiction over demons. I will take whatever punishment you think fit if you free Crowley to go back to Earth.”

Crowley spluttered through a mouthful of feathers.

“ _Aziraphale_ , what are you doing…?”

“I’m simply trying to look after you. Crowley dear, _do_ for once in your life _behave_ and let me get on with it.”

The Metatron had been watching the exchange between Aziraphale and Crowley with obvious frustration.

“Gentlemen, please…”

“I am not,” Crowley’s voice became clearer as he stuck his head between the angel’s wings, the red of his hair vivid against the pristine whiteness of the feathers that surrounded it, “ in any way a fucking _gentleman_ , for more reasons than you’re capable of understanding, you insufferable prick,” he said, his voice sardonic.

The Metatron paused and skewered the demon with A Look. He was good at Looks, he practiced them in his mirror daily and knew how effective this one was.

“Whatever you are, you must both submit. There are no _choices_ available to you, only what must _be_. _Do I make myself clear_?”

Aziraphale dropped his wings a little and looked behind him at Crowley, who came out from behind them to stand next to him again, their linked hands remaining between them.

“Good,” The Metatron took a breath and seemed to grow in stature.

“First things first,” he looked across at the chaos surrounding them and his voice grew louder.

“ **Michael, order your troops to stand down and take your place to bear witness, Gabriel, Sandalphon, Uriel, resume your seats, now!** ”

Gabriel opened his mouth as if to object and then shut it again after a sidelong glance of pure malice from The Metatron. He enjoyed practicing that one in the shower, feeling it was a particularly good effort.

“ **Fellow angels, calm yourselves. Michael, I will not tell you again, your soldiers are to put away their weapons and attend to the trial with the rest of the Host** **…** **I mean it. NOW!** **”**

Michael, who had been considering defying the initial request, got an eyeful of the unforgiving expression on the Metatron’s face (Look Number 7: Don’t Mess With Me Or I’ll Get Really Cross), deflated from her aggressive stance and put her hands to her mouth, shouting orders to the soldiers around the amphitheatre to stand down. Swords were lowered and the tension reduced by increments as hostile angels put away their wings and settled back into their seats.

The amphitheatre was silent, angels and souls back in their places watching the scene in the centre of the court. The soldiers stood at ease between the tiers of seats. Michael had returned to sit next to Gabriel and the other Archangels, resentment writ large on their faces at having been ordered there by a higher power. Both senior demons were also seated, talking with each other in whispers. The Erics had sidled off and were sitting with their back to the lower row of seating near Anpiel, who was looking down at them.

Raphael stood with Miniel, Cherubiel and Milton, some way back from where Aziraphale and Crowley were bickering on the defendant’s rocky outcrop. It was not possible to look at the judge’s rock, any eye that tried to glance that way was seared with a beam of light that caught it and caused the vision to slide to one side without receiving any impression at all of what was occupying that throne of white and gold.

“Aziraphale, I am here to see that these proceedings continue uninterrupted. You must stay where you are in the place of the accused. The Demon Crowley must leave you and take his place in the witness box. You should prepare yourselves, take a moment, now.”

Crowley saw Aziraphale’s forehead tighten at this news, the characteristic series of little tells appearing between his brows that laid bare his apprehension. He stepped closer to the angel, catching his eye, then glancing down at what remained of his dress uniform, leaning in to speak to him quietly.

“ _Anything worn under the kilt, angel_?”

“ _Crowley, really! This is hardly the time for_ _…_ ”

“ _That_ _’_ _s not the right answer, angel, you_ _’_ _re supposed to say,_ _‘_ _no, it_ _’_ _s all in perfect working order_ _’_ _.”_

“ ** _Crowley!_** ”

“ _Just lightening the tension, y_ _’_ _know_.”

“ _Oh, I’ve_ _missed you so much, darling_.”

“ _I always knew you were a sap_.”

They gazed fondly at each other for a moment and the demon’s heart lifted when he saw that familiar smile smooth away the lines from the angel’s forehead. Crowley took the hand he was holding, placing his other hand over it and pressing it softly.

“I’ll be with you again soon, angel, mind how you go.”

They both felt it, the weight of that goodbye, the faith they had that were they able to, they would be together again, but heavy with the knowledge that such an outcome might be out of their hands entirely. Aziraphale, his eyes filling with tears, heard in his mind - _'_ _wherever you are, I’ll come to_ you’ and knew that Crowley would always, always do his best to fulfil that promise. He nodded and stepped back, already feeling the loss of the demon’s warm grip in his as soon as their hands parted.

“Yes, my dear, we _shall_ be together again soon.”

Aziraphale let his hand drop by his side and stood, his eyes never leaving Crowley as he turned away and descended the steps at the side of the dock. He was met by a Court Usher and sauntered along at the side of the small angel, allowing himself to be guided up the steps to the witness rock where he stood, affecting nonchalance, while his heart beat a tattoo as he waited to be cross-examined.

The Metatron, seeing that everyone was in their allotted places and paying full attention to proceedings, stood and skewered Aziraphale with his sternest look (Number 3: Behave Or You Will Wish You Had Never Been Manifested).

“Aziraphale, do you _really_ know this demon?”

Aziraphale managed a snort at this question.

“After six thousand years, I should think I do, yes.”

“How can you know you love him?”

“I know it, I truly do, I can say no more than that.”

“ _I_ would say that this is nonsense, but there is rarely any sense in love. Can you prove that you love him? Would you be willing to die for him?”

Aziraphale looked across at Crowley and his expression softened, a certain light falling across his features. He turned back to the Metatron. No hesitation showed upon his face, only love and the privilege of being allowed, now, to show it.

“Yes. Yes, I would, and he knows it.”

And Crowley did, he knew that, he had known it on that night when Aziraphale had offered unflinchingly to walk into Hell for him, to save his life. They both knew that about each other.

“Such an assertion supports the evidence that you have given this court. Now, Aziraphale, having submitted to proceedings here, if you are acquitted of the charges against you, what would your choice for your future be?”

The snow haired angel raised his head, sweeping the white swathed length of his arm away from him in an expansive gesture, taking in the entirely of the court and the space above it.

“Would you come home, to Heaven, return to the bosom of your family, accept our forgiveness and take up a role here, embrace the safety and comfort to be found amidst the love of your siblings. Is that what you would choose, Aziraphale?”

“At the risk of sounding churlish, no, I would not want that.”

“What would be your wish, then?”

“I – I would choose to go back to Earth, that is my home now, and where I would rather be, I want to be with…”

He looked across to where Crowley was standing and took a breath, but before he could say anything else the Metatron was speaking once more.

“A life there amongst the humans, that would be enough for you?”

“Yes, more than enough, I would consider myself rich beyond measure.”

“Very well, Aziraphale, you have chosen, and should you be acquitted, your wish will be granted.”

Aziraphale’s face brightened, and he allowed a tentative feeling of hope to enter into his mind. A higher power had intervened, just as he had always hoped it might. Was it possible that they might be allowed this, a life beyond the endless bondage of their stations, the freedom to choose how to live for themselves? He looked back once more at Crowley and gave him the beginnings of a smile, trying to convey a cautious sense of optimism that there might be a happy outcome for them from this ordeal. Crowley’s mouth quirked up momentarily in response, his face returning to its former wary expression immediately.

“I have no further questions for you, Aziraphale. You may be joined now by your counsel and choir representatives.”

Miniel and Cherubiel stepped up and stood at each side of Aziraphale, Milton standing just behind them.

“Well done darling, I’m so proud of you, you’re quite the little fighter when you want to be, aren’t you?”

Miniel squeezed his arm, and when he looked, they were both smiling at him, encouragingly.

“We will stand by you now, while Crowley is questioned, you are not alone here,” said Cherubiel.

He appreciated the gesture, but still felt that they were alone, it was just him and Crowley, they were the two under scrutiny, and Crowley was the only one that really mattered, everyone else faded from his view as he focussed on the demon in the witness box.

Aziraphale knew so much about Crowley, had watched him through the years and had always held the precious information gleaned from doing so close, deep within him. He knew all about the moods, the cynicism that formed the necessary carapace to shelter a tender heart, the sarcasm that deflected praise. He had consoled him in his grief and been comforted in his turn. Had watched the quick joy of his mercurial humour and reveled in the delight of it. He knew the demon suffered from the cold in winter and liked the softest blanket when he napped. He knew his taste in whisky, a smoky malt like Talisker or Laphroaig, and kept a decanter for him with the wine in the back shop. Knew that he tended not to eat so much, but had a weakness for a kebab on his way home from an indulgent night. All this knowledge he had tenderly accumulated, but never anything that informed him of what his long-time friend had once been. Looking at Crowley, bright against the bland backdrop of Heaven, his vermilion hair a flame, golden eyes wide and unshaded, he saw an echo of the angel he must once have been, and felt he might weep for the knowledge that this fallen creature was so much more remarkable, resplendent in all the beauty of his so-called flaws, than any other being he had ever known.

“Crowley, Demon of Earth, you are here to answer the questions I will put to you. Do you understand?”

“I dunno what you’re hoping to achieve with this.”

The Metatron ignored this statement and ploughed on.

“Everyone here today has heard Aziraphale’s declarations concerning his feelings for you, which he has just repeated in a most emphatic manner, but we have yet to hear from you. You are a demon, your natural instinct will be to lie, will it not?”

Crowley smiled and nodded his head slowly, as if he knew exactly what was going on.

“Your smile is not unattractive, did you use it to enamour this angel?”

“You’re setting me up here, aren’t you? What is the point of asking me questions when you have already decided I’ll lie to you because of my _nature,_ as you put it?”

“I am waiting for your answer.”

“Would you repeat the question? It had ‘enamoured’ in it.”

“I shall ask you then, directly, do you love this angel.”

The demon made a strangled sound before lifting his head, barely moving his lips as the word fell from them.

“Yup.”

The final plosive echoed round the court and was followed by a warm rush of voices raised in quiet wonderment at it.

“Can you prove it?”

“If you give me enough time, I will. Six thousand years should do it…”

There was a flurry of muted laughter that ran through the attendant souls and angels at this response. Aziraphale felt the tears he could no longer repress start rolling down his cheeks. Crowley stood straighter and grinned at the Metatron.

“But can you prove it, demon? Would you die for him?”

“I’d much rather live, ’s more constructive, that, and he would definitely appreciate it more…”

“Crowley, I charge you to answer the question!”

“Course I would, he knows that.”

And Aziraphale did, he had known it since Crowley agreed to his suggestion that they swap their bodies for their ill-fated executions, had seen it when he had reached out to him on the tarmac of St James’ Park, as the angels hustled him away.

“You lack the eloquence of your angel paramour, but now you have the chance to prove that love, in a way that will leave no element of doubt.”

“You don’t half rattle on, don’t you? Tell me then, what do I have to do to satisfy you jumped-up feather dusters?”

The Metatron sniffed and adopted a long-suffering expression as he continued, ignoring Crowley’s attempts to bait him.

“We understand that both of you have been changed by your time together on the Earth. An angel that can withstand Hellfire, a demon immune to Holy Water, it would appear your very essences have altered.”

There was a gasp about the court and a low chattering as the beings there absorbed this news.

“Settle down everyone, I must have silence while I continue, it is imperative that you all listen and understand.”

Aziraphale began to feel uneasy, he turned to look at Miniel, who placed an arm about his shoulders when she saw his tears.

“There is no longer any need for both of you to attend the humans to achieve the necessary balance, and as you clearly distract each other from your proper duties, it has been decreed that henceforth, there will be a place for only one of you on Earth. Aziraphale has told us of his preference, it remains only for us to make our decision between you. I must ask you, then, would you give-up your place there, for him?”

Aziraphale lunged forward out of Miniel’s grasp.

“ **NO**!’

Crowley looked across at Aziraphale, and nodded to him.

“We ought to have _known_ , angel, they were never going to just _let us go_.”

He looked back at the Metatron .

“Yes, I’d do that, for him. Better that he’s there than me, anyway.”

“Don’t believe him! You’ve no right to do this, you, you, **_bastard_**!”

Aziraphale was frantic, and turned with the intention of running down the steps and going to Crowley. How could he have been so _stupid_ , falling for Heaven’s bullshit, _again?_ For all his confidence in standing up to Gabriel, he was still a foolish, foolish angel, hoping for the best and being betrayed by the callous indifference of those put in positions of power above him, over and over and over.

“How dare you address me in that manner! Miniel, Cherubiel, restrain your brother, please, I will not tolerate that kind of language!”

“Aziraphale, darling…”

Aziraphale brushed off her hand and stood there, shaking, tears running down his cheeks.

“You _played_ me, you and your dirty tricks! Take **_me_** , I beg you! Leave him _alone_!”

“Aziraphale, this is contempt of court, you realise that you have forfeited any chance of winning your case now?”

“You won’t get Crowley, I won’t allow it!”

“Hmmm,” said the Metatron, looking at the figure of Aziraphale before him, “it would seem that you really do love him.”

He turned away from the angel and looked again at Crowley.

“Be that as it may, the fact remains, Crowley, that if you love Aziraphale, you will not stand in his way. If you do so, as Hell no longer has any desire to keep you, and you are potentially a threat, you shall submit to incarceration here in Heaven where you will spend the rest of your days until the End Times. This is the only way in which we may settle this matter and establish peace in both Heaven and Hell.”

There was only one choice for Crowley, betraying the secret of their body swap to contest the belief of the court as to their natures would only make Aziraphale vulnerable to attack in the future. Despite knowing that this was hurting his angel, he had to reconcile himself to the inevitable. He raged internally at God and Her representative standing looking at him with an inscrutable expression, waiting for his answer. Crowley understood that this was being done to punish both of them yet again, this attempt just as deadly in its way as the last one. Given the eternity that lay ahead of him, Crowley thought he might just as well be dead. Turning his head away from Aziraphale’s anguished face, he submitted.

“Okay. If that’s what you utter wankers insist on, I’ll do it, if you swear you’ll let him go.”

“We will, he shall be allowed to go in peace, you have my word on it.”

“ **NO!** _Crowley!_ _Please_ , don’t. _I’ll_ stay here.”

Aziraphale had come to the same conclusion as Crowley, telling the powers of Heaven about their deception was impossible to contemplate if it might be used against the demon while he remained in their custody. All he could do was offer up himself. Even if it meant losing everything he cared about, it would be worth it to see Crowley go free. He turned his pleading face to the Metatron.

“I’ve changed my mind, I want to take up - to do the thing - what you said before, being in the bosom of my whatever it was - that. I’ll do anything you want. I promise, I’ll be good. I’ll go back in the army or the Void, if you wish it… anything, anything, _please_ …”

His voice faded out when he saw the expression on the other angel’s face.

“It is too late for that, Aziraphale , the demon has accepted our terms and this is the outcome that we would prefer. You are to return to your station on Earth as soon as the verdict is given, which I believe will be in your favour, after everything we have seen. That has to be good news for you, doesn’t it? Now, Michael, can you spare two soldiers to take the demon to the oubliette?”

“Can I be allowed to say goodbye?”

Crowley’s voice was weary, his face drained of all colour.

“I will grant you that, I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I was _insensitive_. Go to him, I will give you a few minutes.”

Michael had signalled to two of her troops to attend the centre of the court room and she watched with a spiteful smirk on her face as they descended the steps. All of the angels and souls were transfixed, only Gabriel was smiling. He raised his voice and called over.

“Not so clever now, are you sunshine? Go on, cry, you _pathetic specimen_. I’ll look forward to your next performance review.”

Aziraphale did his best to ignore him as he walked down the steps of the podium where he had been standing, head resolutely facing away from where Gabriel was sitting, laughing and slapping his thighs in his pleasure.

There were muffled sobs coming from various places around the amphitheatre. Couples in the crowd held hands and leaned into each other as Aziraphale and Crowley met in the shadow of the rocks where they had been standing.

“Aziraphale, don’t cry.”

“ _Crowley_ …”

They were both trembling as they faced each other.

“ ’S better this way, you’ll be on Earth, doing…doing good, and that’ll be…nice for everyone. Better that than me, y’know, messing everyone around, fucking up the phones, g-gluing coins to...to…”

The demon swiped his hand across his eyes with a savage movement and continued to hold the angel’s gaze. Aziraphale could barely see Crowley’s face through his tears. He swallowed, forcing the words he needed to say out of his throat.

“The world could _never_ , e _ver_ be a better place without you in it, _never_ , do you hear me? And I...I don’t know how I - I…”

Crowley reached out and took Aziraphale by the shoulders, drawing the angel towards him. Aziraphale curled his shaking hands around Crowley’s upper arms, head bowed. It was the nearest they had ever come to an embrace. Aziraphale could feel the solid warmth of the demon’s arms beneath his fingers, and smell that ripe apple and bonfire aroma that he loved so very much. He felt an infinite regret. He should have held this dearest being to him years ago, and showed him just how deeply he was loved. Their time, that had seemed so endless once, had run out, and there was nothing left but loneliness and the bitter understanding of chances never taken.

Crowley buried his nose into the front of Aziraphale’s curls for a moment, and breathed in the sweetness of his scent. He pressed a kiss to his forehead and held his lips there briefly, hearing the hitch in the angel’s breathing as he closed his eyes in pain and gave a choked-off sob.

“Let’s not give that bastard Gabriel what he wants, angel,” he put one finger under Aziraphale’s chin and lifted his face so that they were looking into each other’s eyes once more, “Hey, chin up, love, you can do this.”

“I don’t believe I can…. _Crowley_ …”

“Goodbye Aziraphale, my angel. Be good won’t you. I’ll be thinking of you, I won’t forget, lots of memories to tide me over, I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.”

“ _Hurry it up now, time we got moving_.”

The soldier’s voice sounded as if it was coming from very far away

“Goodbye Crowley, my Crowley, I _will_ see you again, I’ll find a way…”

There were soldiers at the back of Crowley now, taking him by the elbows and pulling him away. Aziraphale reached out.

“Crowley!”

But they were turning him, roughly and preparing to bind him.

“ _Don_ _’_ _t touch me_! I said I’ll go with you, let me alone, ’m not going anywhere.”

Crowley’s body drooped between the two uniformed figures as the three walked away from where the angel stood and the whole assembled company watched them climb the stairs and leave the amphitheatre.

Aziraphale was dazed. It felt unreal, the sight of Crowley, the supple length of his back, so familiar from when he had swung out of the doors of the bookshop countless times, walking away. The knowledge that this was the last he would ever see of him until the universe ended in fire and chaos refused to stay in his mind. His vision was tunneling now, with floaty black spots dancing in front of his eyes and he could not stop the tremors coursing through the length of himself. Where had his legs gone, why were the lights going out, and who was making that awful, awful noise?

Miniel and Cherubiel, who had been standing holding each other while they watched, Cherubiel sobbing into their partner’s shoulder, hastened forward as they saw Aziraphale sway where he stood. They were not fast enough to catch him as he fell to his knees. His wings jerked fully open and flared to the sky as he put his head back and screamed into the unforgiving cold light of the stars.

And there was the cry of a man, and the roar of a lion, the bellow of an ox and the piercing shriek of an eagle.

The whole of Heaven reverberated to the sound of a cherub in mourning for the loss of his only love.

Echoes of his keening spread out across the universe.

On Earth, a wave of sadness surged through and overwhelmed the people over whom Aziraphale had his dominion.

In Soho a bookshop’s doors were blasted open, fuses were blown, light bulbs shattered across the city, and for over an hour, not one bird sang in London.

In a multi-story car park just off Piccadilly, a vintage car’s horn blew, the windscreen wipers flailed and all the lights and indicators flashed and shorted. The voice of a long-dead rock legend mourned the loss of his love in the walnut and leather confines of the Bentley.

Horrified, the angels and souls in the court room stared and stared at the ball of feathers in the centre of the arena as it sobbed and rocked, rocked and sobbed, small and inconsolable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about this. It happens in the film, you see, so blame Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger.  
> Do scream at me in the comments! Thank you for reading everyone who still is.  
> Note  
> The Metatron, as I understand it, was originally a human described in the Book of Genesis as Enoch a human patriarch who lived for 365 years on Earth before being elevated by God into Heaven to be an angel and Her spokesman (Genesis 5: 21 – 24). This is just to explain why Crowley greets him by that name in this chapter. He is also in some sources identified as the twin brother of Sandalphon, who was formerly the Prophet Elijah who was similarly elevated by God. One suspects that if this is the case, the Metatron might be a bit of a pill.


	23. Oh, I always hoped there would be dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the Metatron’s decision plays out. Crowley finds himself somewhere new and has a conversation. Aziraphale needs help and is confused. There are consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: One character’s gender will change continually throughout the chapter according to how they present.
> 
> Please note: Deus ex machina.
> 
> I am so sorry that I missed posting for a week. Things weren’t so good on the mental health front andI found writing this chapter quite tough. It is a long one but it needed to be to get everything worked out. 
> 
> There will be one more chapter of talking and fluff and then an epilogue (or possibly two) to tie things up because there are going to be visits and weddings.
> 
> Thanks as ever to my stalwart beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) for so much including happy WhatsApp discussions about all sorts of things and to my friends [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) for their support and encouragement.
> 
> Comments and kudos are very welcome, let me know if you enjoyed this. Thank you to everyone still reading, I hope you enjoy how this goes. Keep safe and be kind to yourselves.

Tensions in the court room had gone beyond what might loosely be termed boiling point, if ancient beings made of energy could ever be reduced to the lazy simile of something as resolutely Earth bound as liquid. The angels of the higher choirs, in their fury and distress at the state of one of their number, prostrate in front of them, deep in his grief, had taken their ultimate recourse to their true forms. Others were sobbing or calling out at the unfairness of what they had just witnessed. Those who had followed the angel and demon through the images of their meetings over the ages felt betrayed and heartbroken at the decision to separate the pair for eternity.

Before any further action could be taken, by Miniel and Cherubiel to comfort Aziraphale, by the Court officials to calm the scene, by Gabriel or Michael to issue commands, there was a blinding flash of searing light from the Judge’s throne, and a pure, high tone as if from the sweetest of brass instruments, sounded distinctly in the airy realm of Heaven. It was no longer possible to look at the Judge’s dais, the light was blindingly bright and illuminated everything around it beyond the capacity of all the many eyes there to see.

With the advent of this apparition, and the change in form of so many of the Seraphim and Cherubim, the amphitheatre resembled nothing so much as a crucible of roiling, blazing fire. Within this, those who still retained bodies that took the outward shape of human corporations shrank away from the outpouring of heavenly force, dense and terrible, a wave of sonic and lucid energy as irresistible as the passage of time itself. The souls cringed, Dagon folded Beelzebub completely in her arms and the damp, green expanse of her webbed wings, shielding them protectively, while both demons held their heads on the other’s shoulder.

Anpiel was distraught, her throat raw from weeping. Her empathetic nature made it impossible for her to watch the betrayal of Aziraphale’s hopes and the scene of farewell between angel and demon without breaking down herself. She was determined that there would be no further damage to any being as a result of what was happening if she could possibly prevent it. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she looked down at the two cringing figures who were attempting to make themselves as small as possible against the tier of seats below her. She jumped up from where she was sitting and landed lightly between the two lesser demons, who were crouched as near to the floor as they could get, clearly terrified. Anpiel gathered them to her making small sounds of reassurance as she did so, her arms winding around each of their waists, and extended her soft grey wings with their barring of darker grey and light grey primaries over both of them, enfolding them in her feathers to protect their shivering forms from the assault of holy energy washing around the arena. The two demons whimpered a little in their terror and cuddled in closely to their saviour.

“I am sorry my dears,” said Anpiel, catching the eye of the demon to her left, “this might seem a little forward of me but you looked so scared, and oh, but I just couldn’t have left you there like that.”

Eric could not stop looking at the little angel who had come to their rescue. Close up, they could see that there were flecks of gold in her bright green eyes, and a sprinkle of freckles across her delightful retroussé nose and on the apples of her damp cheeks. Her hair had plum coloured highlights through the chestnut, and her side was warm and softly pliant. They were overwhelmed in the best possible way with a surge of entirely unaccustomed feelings of comfort and acceptance, closeted there in the fragrant grey cave of feathers. Their connection to the rest of Legion ensured that they were experiencing the same effect, those down in Hell wondering what could possibly be causing this sensation, checking their bodies for fever and dropping to the floor with the force of the emotions that were passing through them. Anpiel in her turn was mesmerised by the softness in the eyes meeting hers surrounded by the longest lashes, smudged with dark kohl. Her gaze dropped to the lopsided grin that had replaced the look of terror on their face, showing the dearest gap between the top two teeth, and what had to be the cutest dimple she had ever seen in the smooth skin of their cheek. They held each other, and for a few seconds, Anpiel’s grief and concern at what was happening and Erics’ fear melted away as they made an irreversible connection, each to the other. This mutual introspection was rudely interrupted when a clear voice rang out:

**THAT IS QUITE ENOUGH, ATTEND TO ME NOW, MY CHILDREN**

***

Broken hearted, Crowley took his faltering steps between the two soldiers, hearing the cries of his soulmate echoing across the spheres of Heaven and the rising tide of noise that accompanied it from the spectators of the trial fading away as he attempted to walk normally despite an insistent quivering in his lower limbs that he was entirely unable to control. He kept his eyes on his feet, willing the tears that threatened to spill over from falling, not wanting the smug presences he could feel on each side to have this little victory over him. He heard the long, silvery cadence of a bugle call and looked up. A flicker passed across his vision for a moment, the slightest disconnect, a segue, a slip into something hazy and he could smell the …

…sea, the pungent perfume of it rolled into his consciousness, and his feet slid sideways suddenly. He put out his arms for balance and righted his stance, lifting his chin as he did so and noticing at once that he was untethered from hands that had held him, fingers digging in to the skin and muscles of his upper arms. He was alone now, the soldiers had vanished as if they had never been with him. He stood on piled sand, the briny tang fresh in his face, the sound of waves not far off repetitive and soothing. The sky was a never-ending dome of hazy blue, with only a few lines of cloud at the horizon. The dunes in front of him looked like they stretched on for miles, their smooth flanks broken only by reeds and coarse grasses. As he moved to take another step on the shifting sand, he noticed that his body was clad in black linen, a robe, that draped over him artfully, the fine fabric kissing his skin. It was peaceful here and he walked without thinking. It no longer mattered where he was, if this was a vision, somewhere he had gone in his mind to escape from the pain of what had been done to them both, that was fine by him. For these moments, he would just walk and take each second as it came, numb and accepting.

The shush and sigh of the waves occupied him in his meditative stroll until he caught a drifting cadence, low and sweet, its tones plangent and mournful. A refrain repeated, fixing itself in his mind, he took it up, humming along as he walked. A movement caught his eye, nothing of angel or demon, but a low shape, meandering though the humped forms of the dunes. It resolved itself into a dog, long and sleek with a pelt as black as liquorice and shiny as the striations in a lump of coal. It panted its way over to him and pushed a cold wet nose into his hand, bumping his legs with its body as it wagged its tail and leaned into him, a canine welcome of the sweetest kind.

Crowley liked dogs, but, alas, they never really took to him. As with all domestic animals, they seemed to sense the essential ophidian quality of his nature, and even the best of good boys or girls shied away from him when he went to greet them. This one was different, it circled him, tongue lolling in a smile, an expression in its warm brown eyes that spoke of devotion and fidelity, the gift that dogs give endlessly as part of the very essence of their nature.

“Hello, you.”

Crowley, cupped his long fingers over the warm contours of the animal’s smoothly furred head. He squatted and stroked past its ears, pushing his hands down over its shoulders, jerking his head away with a grin as it lurched up to lick his chin, its textured tongue warm and slick.

“Who’s a good dog, then?”

He couldn’t have helped it, no-one who was not phobic would have denied this animal the praise that it was due.

The tune became louder as he walked, the dog by his side, huffing as it padded along, happy to stay close to him. He rounded a dune and there was a child, sitting naked in a pool of skins, mouth rounded over a set of pan pipes. Crowley blinked in surprise and remembered a shepherd boy watching goats on a hillside in Judea, more than two thousand years ago. The figure was lithe and genderless, and Crowley was opened up, his mind an echoing passageway through which cold winds blew as he met the pointed stare of its unfathomable eyes.

“My child, beloved Crowley, sit with me, we must talk.”

The figure held out a hand, indicating the sand before it, and changed. Crowley sank down to sit and watched as the face became fluid, like something seen through the endless texture of fast flowing water. It was a child’s face. As he watched, it became the face of every child he had ever known, feature flowing into feature. Then it grew, became an adult, a woman shopping in the Agora at Alexandria, a girl who had lodged next to him in Ur, an elderly man he had watched leading a donkey laden with two swaying baskets of oranges in Marrakesh, a bearded regular at Aziraphale’s bookshop. The figures morphed, one to the next and Crowley realised he had seen them all before, caught their eyes, noticed them watching him, a flash and then they were gone, moving past him in the stream of human living. The changes in the being before him blurred, each one a still in some film strip of his long immortal life. But it was slowing now, and came to rest, and She was there, standing before him, a tall, commanding presence, ebony skin, braided hair, Her dress a living sheath of flowers, Her cloak wrought of stars, winking and burning against the pale sand behind Her. The dog lay between them, watching them both, then groaned, placed its head between its paws and closed its eyes.

“You see now, Crowley, you thought I wasn’t listening, but I have never been far from you, or from Aziraphale. I made sure to keep an eye on you, to see how you were getting on.”

“Y- you… you… ngk”

“As articulate as ever, my child. I brought you here to thank you, for what you have done. You were excellent.”

“W-wha’? Excellent? What do you …? How can you…?”

Crowley should have been frightened, and perhaps he was, but as he sat in Her presence, and examined his inner feelings, as those in Her presence were by their natures wont to do, he found the emotion at the foremost of his heart was not, in fact, fear, or reverence, but anger, blinding fury, rising in him, to unprecedented heights. As was typical of him, he ignored the possibility of being wiped out by Her disapproval, and blurted out the question that habitually burned within his mind.

“ ** _Why?_** ”

She smiled, that secret, successful poker player smile that he remembered from Before.

“Why what, my dearest child? What questions would you ask of me? Don’t look so shocked, it is just as I would have expected, you haven’t changed that much, always a one for asking questions. It is how I made you after all.”

“Why have you put him through all this, what good has it served? Why did he have to suffer? He’s supposed to be one of your own. Not very nice of you, is it?”

“You forget, Crowley, to paraphrase something I believe you’ll recognise, I am an infinitely powerful divine agency, I am not _nice_ , I am never _nice_ , _nice_ is a four letter word. Do not expect it of me, you of all people should know better than that. And unlike you, I mean exactly what I say, I am not here to be nice. You, however, frequently are.”

Crowley’s only response to this was a garbled few syllables that had no business being seen anywhere near each other. The entity standing before him, surveying his face with a serene and compassionate expression, tailored to appeal to the better nature that he had in quantity but endlessly denied, merely smiled at him again.

“No questions for yourself, dear one? Or are they implied in what you do ask? I commend you for your love, my child. You have always put him first, as far as you have been able to do so.”

Crowley blushed and looked away for a moment, clenched his fists and faced Her again, refusing to be distracted by Her words, his face obdurate.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Very well, you have the right to an explanation so I will tell you what I feel you need to know. As in all things, it was necessary so that others could bear witness to the love he bears you and that you have for him, to set a precedent and correct what has been amiss within the Host for far too long. And the other question, ask it, I have been listening when you pondered on it, so take your chance and ask me.”

He stared at Her, knowing that he shouldn’t push his luck, but unable to resist now he had all of her attention. He spoke softly, an aching sorrow in each syllable.

“Why did I have to Fall?”

“You know why, Crowley, you said it yourself, because I planned it this way all along. From the very beginning.”

She approached him then, placing her hand on his head in a benediction, speaking to him in soothing tones that vibrated through his corporation and into his True Form.

“I cannot say I am sorry, I am your maker, I do not have regrets. It was meant to be, a matter of one life, your life, against the ultimate fate of the Universe, and I offer no apologies for that. You understand, I know you do, for it is an argument you have used yourself.”

“But…”

“I have not quite finished, child. I gave you a gift, an angel to love you just as I gave him a gift in you. You have both been a compensation, each to each, for the pain, conflict and suffering you have experienced in different ways. He has loved and accepted you always, and despite what you have both said on occasion because of your situations, in your heart you know this, just as he has always been aware of the acceptance and love you have in your heart for him. It was necessary that you be set against each other, even though, in your love for humanity and all of creation on the Earth, in truth you have been on your own side since the day you met in Eden.”

He tried to take this in, staring at the sleeping dog between them. Perhaps he had always known these things, it was just that it hadn’t felt that way at the time, and why did it all have to be so complicated? Couldn’t She just have decreed that there was no need for an apocalypse at all, and cancelled the Final Battle? Was this what they really meant when they said She moved in a Mysterious Way? He couldn’t help the questions, it was what he was now. He took a breath to ask another when Her words cut into this thoughts.

“Know also, Crowley, that although you can no longer feel my love, it has always been there for the special angel who sauntered vaguely downwards. You chose to question, and leave, and that is not for me to change, but you have my love, just as Aziraphale does. You are my creatures and I have always held you most dear in my regard.”

This asservation pushed all other thoughts and questions from his mind. Crowley found he was unable to speak, he was full, his cheeks were wet again. He curled up, face against his knees and let the pain of being loved wash through him. The dog between them seemed to respond to his distress as it hauled itself up from its prone position and padded to him, sitting and leaning its warm body into his side, making a small whine that sounded like a cross between a question and a plea. He looped an arm around its back and pulled his fingers through the thick fur beneath its jaw, its warmth a comfort, grounding him through the pleasure of touch. It licked its chops and pushed its head into his hand.

“Come now, we must return to Heaven, your angel needs you and I would speak with those assembled at the Court.”

“If we are not in Heaven, where are we now?”

“On Earth, a place I thought would be most soothing for you. You will know it again, when you come back, in the course of things. Stay with me now.”

She extended Her hand, taking his and helping him to stand and he felt the connection like a high voltage jolt. Before he knew it, the sands were falling away and they were strolling through the stars, each stride taking them deeper, planets and asteroids whirling by them. Crowley could hear the soft patter of the dog’s footsteps following behind them as they walked on what felt beneath his feet like a cobbled causeway.

“Your stars are still beautiful, Crowley,” She said, turning her head so that he could feel the pull of Her infinite eyes upon him, “you had such a way with matter, those nebulae, so very pretty.”

They walked into what felt like the heart of a star, the radiance was blinding and Crowley closed his eyes for a moment to escape the pain of it. When he opened them, they were stepping up on to a white rock, passing by an empty throne, and out of the terrifying luminosity he saw the gigantic bowl shape of the court once more, angels and souls jostling in their seats and craning their necks to see as they manifested in that place. Before them were the figures of Miniel and Cherubiel, with Raphael in front of them, crouched down over a shape prone on the floor. They looked up, grief and desperation on their faces.

“He’s passed out,” said Miniel, her stressed voice higher than usual, “Raphie’s tried everything but he can’t get him to wake up, help him, please.”

***

We, in our human wisdom, came up with the word ‘ineffable’ as a form of its own paradox, to describe things that cannot be properly understood or put into words. It is not possible for any being to comprehend the being that we call God. She, They, He or It, are truly beyond our ability to see or experience. It is said that it was forbidden to speak the name of God, but this is not the case, it is just that it is not possible for the name of God to be known, so it cannot be spoken. We depend on ciphers to discuss the issue, and this falls so far short every time, that we have become oblivious to the magnitude of our incapacity in the matter.

It is described in the Holy Writ of various religions that, in antiquity, God deigned to manifest Themself in a metaphorical manner. This was done in such a way as to be impressive enough to strike a suitable feeling of fear and reverence without driving the luckless spectators entirely out of their minds. Hence the people fleeing from Egypt were awed by a column of cloud by day and one of fire at night, and Moses prostrated himself before a burning bush, attending in a proper manner to the words that issued forth from it. Since those days, the Almighty has not cared to be so crude, setting the wheels in motion and leaving the mechanism to function according to Their will without attending to it personally. Now, however, the time had come for an Intervention. Things were not as they should be and a Manifestation was at hand. Mindful of the sensibilities of Their children in Heaven, They came to them now in whatever form They felt they could tolerate, what would make them feel most at ease, give them what they needed, and in a few cases, what they ultimately deserved. As a consequence, no angel, demon or soul saw quite the same thing when they looked upon their Maker, and the descriptions given here can only ever be an approximation of what was experienced on that day.

Suffice to say They were come to reprimand, to chastise and set things right. Wrath was something They had found was not, in the longer term, helpful in organising Creation, it would be more accurate to say that the emotion governing the mighty mind of God, as They stepped out of the blinding luminescence of their incarnation was one mostly characterised by a feeling of crushing disappointment as well as the habitual overwhelming Love They bore. As all schoolchildren know, an angry Teacher is something to be feared and avoided, but the deepest realms of shame are engendered by the horrible notion that a much loved dominie feels let down. There is nothing worse to a naughty child than that awful phrase, _I am very disappointed in you_.

She stood, a towering presence, the dog sat sentinel by Her feet.

The Host Saw Her, and as one they stood and kneeled, recognising Her immediately, all that is, apart from two. Gabriel and Sandalphon remained standing, squinting into the light, faces ignorant of understanding, creased with the marks of confusion. Gabriel looked round to where Michael and Uriel knelt, their heads bowed. Michael was trembling.

“Hey, why are you…?”

The Voice thundered suddenly, reverberating across the arena.

**“Dost thou not know me, my Messenger, wherefore dost thou not abase thyself in front of thy Maker?”**

Gabriel’s face blanched white, he dropped to his knees, Sandalphon continued to look blankly confused then sank down when it saw Gabriel descending beside it.

“Okay, I’ll stop with the thees and thous and deal with you later. Stay where you are, all of you. Crowley, come with me now to Aziraphale, you must wake him, I need to speak with him also.”

They hurried down from the escarpment of the Judge’s dais, the dog trotting behind them, and Crowley ran from its base to where Aziraphale lay. His angel was motionless, curled up on his side amidst his wings. He looked small and broken lying there and in a flash, Crowley saw the truth of it. He had heard Aziraphale cry out as he was being led away and the agony of that sound had bled into his heart. Now he was witness to what the loss of him, Crowley, really meant to the angel. Despite all the declarations that had been made throughout the trial, there was still a part of Crowley that feared be might be found wanting by the angel he had loved so faithfully through the millennia. Denied and spurned repeatedly through fear, for both of their safeties, these rebuttals had wrought their subtle damage on his sense of self, even as he had tried to rationalise and be generous in his judgement of the angel’s contrary behaviour. The appearance of love through glances and actions had so often been belied by the coldness of words that cut him, even as he strived not to let them. Here, in the silent form of his soulmate, his ravaged face still, his hands curled into themselves, feathers scattered by him where he had torn them out in his despair, was evidence of his deep and abiding love, of a being that would and could not remain sensate through the pain of his greatest ever loss.

Crowley acted on instinct, suddenly knowing what to do. He knelt and extended his left hand, curving his fingers, reaching out and placing his cool palm against the angel’s warm cheek.

“Aziraphale … _Aziraphale_. Time to wake up now, love.”

***

Aziraphale was somewhere pink. He was so very tired, fatigue aching deep within his bones. He just wanted to sleep and let everything drift away. Had he been able to stop living at that point, he would have embraced that decision with joy, accepting death without a murmur.

_Now more than ever seems it rich to die,_

_To cease upon the midnight with no pain…_

There was a touch upon him, soft, he leaned his face into it, seeking its comfort, like a cat. A hand, the cupped palm and fingers soothing.

_“Aziraphale …_ Aziraphale _. Time to wake up now, love.”_

_“Crowley?”_

He opened his eyes and there was a face above his, the gaze like warm honey, a smile, that dimple, the tenderness almost too much for him.

“ _Crowley._ You saved me, from the Void,” was all he could think to say, mind cast back to the vision he had then, that had woken him to consciousness and thrown him the lifeline of recollected words and memories, “you saved me Crowley, you came for me.”

“ ’M here now, angel.”

“Where am I?”

“You’re in the Court of Session, Aziraphale, there is someone here who wants to speak with you. Hey, c’mere, I’ll help you up.”

Crowley moved his hands to grasp Aziraphale by the elbows, pulling him into a sitting position. Cherubiel and Miniel stood behind him and supported his shoulders, helping him get to his feet as Crowley hauled him up. Aziraphale stood shakily, his wings drooping behind him, the feathers sad and bedraggled. Crowley took his arm and the angel leaned against him, gazing into his demon’s face, searching his eyes for meaning, unable to piece together exactly what had happened. He could not stop looking at Crowley, this was all he wanted, even though he could not, at that moment, remember what had just happened to make him feel so very strongly about this one fact. He clutched at the demon’s arm.

“Don’t go, stay with me.”

“I will, angel, I promise.”

There was another voice, from somewhere behind Crowley. It sounded a little familiar.

“Aziraphale.”

He was distracted, still looking at the demon, who was blushing, that was novel, even his ears were red. He wondered if he could get him to look like that more often, it was adorable. The sweet voice coming from the other side of him took some time penetrate the single-minded focus the angel had on the being he cared for most in all of creation.

“Aziraphale.”

The voice was louder now, he remembered it, asking about his sword, it had never pushed the issue, but still he had dreamed about it until he stopped sleeping altogether, the guilt he felt over it had often been quite overwhelming. He turned in the direction of the sound. The face he found there was kind, a physiognomy that, like his own, was marked by the lines that showed that it had lived. A head of loose grey curls topped a high forehead, arched brows framing deep-set eyes of steely blue. The mouth was a steady line with a small quirk at one corner, as if a chuckle might just be imminent.

“Mother?”

“Yes, my child,” she looked at the demon, ”Crowley, may I take him from you for a moment?”

“Yeah, ’s long as you’re nice, he’s had enough of the other things lately, y’know.”

Crowley closed his eyes and groaned, here he was, useless idiot, in love with an angel and being impudent to God. He was so, so screwed. She merely chuckled, a low musical sound.

“I will be, I promise,”

The eyes were shrewd, but She was laughing at him as she put her arm around Aziraphale and took him to one side. Crowley could still hear Her as she spoke with him, something he believed was probably intentional, a kindness done to put his mind at ease. The dog left Her side and trotted over to sit at his feet, leaning against his legs and looking up at him. He stroked its head absently while he watched the angel and the Creator in conversation.

Aziraphale’s mind cleared as he felt Her touch, and he came to an acute awareness of where he was and who he was with as a little of Her power trickled into him, putting his wings to rights and rectifying the immediate damage to his mind caused by the violent grief he had been experiencing. He made an attempt to kneel and was fidgeting and fussing, trying not to look Her in the face in his distress, but She kept him upright and spoke to him.

“Aziraphale, calm yourself, I am not angry with you. I want to thank you for all that you have done, and tell you that you are most beloved within my sight, I know you worry about that and I have heard your prayers.”

“Oh! Oh, thank you, Mother, I did worry, yes so much, about that and other things, so many things…”

“You love him, child, that is as it should be. I made you for one another.”

“You did? Oh…”

He looked at Her in wonder, eyes huge.

“And Aziraphale ?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“You have spent some time developing Earthly skills as a magician, yes?”

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t exactly say that, um, that is to say…I dabble, a bit?”

He was hesitant, waiting for a reprimand. This was just the sort of activity that Gabriel had always criticised him over, but She just looked at him fondly.

“You understand about misdirection though, don’t you?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, knowing he was following her by the puzzled look on his face

“That’s what _you were_. While the pair of you were busy running around after the wrong child, it kept your sides focussed away from the right one, allowing him the advantage of two loving humans to raise him, guide him, and the chance to make his own choices from that position. Well done, my child, you messed the whole thing up perfectly, thank you.”

“So… so it was all pre-ordained then?”

“Not quite, but the boy got to choose, that was the important bit, the rest of it is between me and, well, me I suppose.”

Aziraphale was left speechless at this. She let him go and ushered him in the direction of Crowley.

“What are you waiting for? Go to your demon!”

The angel rejoined Crowley and looked down at the dog.

“Who’s this?”

“Uhhh dunno, ’s just a dog really.”

“Ah, right, he’s rather nice though, aren’t you?”

The dog whined a little and shifted as Aziraphale fussed over it, sitting between the angel and demon once he had finished, panting, apparently perfectly content. Aziraphale took Crowley’s arm and stood next to him. They were both a little dizzy at the rapid change of circumstances but knew it was right that they should face whatever came next together. It felt strangely exposing to have their friendship officially ratified and to have everyone looking at them, but they needed to be touching one another, neither wanting to be far from the other again.

The Almighty turned to His Host, changing again, now tall and imposing, a leonine mass of snowy hair brushed back from an impassive, bearded face that Michelangelo would have recognised. The robes were blinding white and rich purple, He gripped an ornate staff, and a bright crown of gold was woven through the waves of His hair. He spoke out to the assembled angels who remained wrapt and silent, awed by the presence of the Prime Mover.

“To those who chose to love, and those who chose to protest, My thanks go out to you for your fidelity and bravery. To those who took the gravest risks and stayed staunch, you have My gratitude. I make special mention here of My angels Cahethal for your compassion and maturity. Cherubiel and Miniel for your loyalty and love. Pravuil and Jophiel, for your fortitude and intelligence. Raduerial and Harahel for your diligence and patience. Lamechiel and Baruchiel for your righteous indignation and organisational skills. Ramiel and Remiel for your legal acumen, and to Nanael and Nithael and my renegade soldiers for your valour and steadfastness, and all of you who chose love over division and petty power politics. Well done, I am so proud of you all.”

There was blushing and confusion amongst the angels mentioned, and a certain amount of proper pride when their siblings looked at them with awe. He had commended them, there could be no greater accolade.

He turned then to the souls side of the amphitheatre and changed again, a slight young man now, on His head a crown of thorns. He held His bleeding hands out towards the human spirits who had lived kindly and kept faith with Him while on the Earth.

“To those here to witness go My thanks and blessing. Master Milton, especial benediction to you, for your speeches and their sentiment and for supporting our Earth Angel in his time of darkness.”

The souls broke into applause, and Milton stood to bow, smiling and waving at his wives and daughters in the audience.

“Now, there remains one thing that must be done, for the sake of propriety.” He turned to the jury, still sitting in their seats, “After having heard all the evidence put before you today, are you in a position to give us your verdict?”

“My Lord, I beg that we may be allowed to confer,” said Zaphiel, standing to deliver her plea, “we need but a moment and then we should be able to grant your request.”

There followed an intense exchange conducted in loud whispers, interspersed with gesticulation and the nodding of heads.

The muttered dialogue between the jury members came to an end and the seraph Asariel rose to their feet.

“We are ready now, My Lord.”

“Aziraphale stands here accused of dereliction of duty and Treason against Heaven. How do you find the defendant, guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty My Lord.”

There was an exhalation, like a drawn-out sigh that passed through the court. A few smaller angels started clapping but were frowned at by their siblings and the ragged patter died away as they subsided in their seats. Silence descended once more as all eyes focussed on the slight figure at the centre of the arena, who, in His turn, had His eyes fixed upon the four Archangels.

“May it be noted in the record then, Pravuil, please make it so, that Aziraphale is acquitted of all charges and that both he and Crowley are free to go, to be allowed to live as they so choose, without harassment from the agents of Heaven or of Hell. Lord Beelzebub, may I have your undertaking that this stricture will be obeyed?”

The two senior demons had been trying to sidle out of the arena since they had heard the call of the Heavenly fanfare but had been stopped by a soldier. They were both white faced and wide eyed at being addressed, although Beelzebub summoned up some of their old attitude when they addressed the Almighty directly.

“Wouldn’t want to be anywhere near either of them. Thiszz wazzn’t my idea in the firzzzt plazzze.”

They looked across at Gabriel and Michael, who both refused to meet their eye.

While they had been speaking, the divine presence had changed again. Now She appeared as a stout woman in Her late sixties. Iron grey hair was scraped back into a bun atop Her head, Her expression was grim and humourless. Her imposing, thick form was encased in a hairy tweed skirt suit of a positively hideous cut in an alarming hound’s tooth check, the colours clashing horribly with each other. The overall impression was one of a particularly strict and potentially sadistic elementary school teacher who had just caught a group of children cheating in their Maths test. The group of children concerned wilted under Her scrutiny. Michael’s face was bone white, her lips moving in some sort of litany that only she was privy to. Uriel looked like she was going to be sick, hand over her mouth, eyes huge. Sandalphon would not look up, its eyes remained fixed on the ground between its knees and it trembled as it knelt there. Gabriel tried one of his trademark grins, but it came out twisted and he coloured and hung his head as the silent stare continued.

“Well, well, well… my Archangels, what an absolute _clutch_ of… bad eggs.”

She walked up and down, hands behind Her back, as she surveyed the four figures before Her.

“Whatever did you think you were doing? Do enlighten me. Michael, my Commander, my sword, Gabriel, my Messenger, Uriel, my Light. What made you think any of this was right?”

“But they stopped the War, we were to have a War, it was written!”

Michael had stepped forward, eyes blazing.

“No, my child, the boy Adam made a choice, one that was his right to make, not to take up his power and end the world. All these two did was to remind you that if things happen, it is My Will that they should.”

“He, that demon,” Michael was red-faced and furious, stuttering now having lost her cool, “h-he should suffer like I did. He killed my best friend. Why should he get to keep his friend when I have lost mine!”

“The real reason for your ire then, Michael, you lost your friend. Thank you for being honest with me, but you know that revenge does not mend a hurt, it merely compounds it, don’t you? You always were a hot-headed one, child.”

Michael’s features twisted and she looked on the verge of tears, Aziraphale had never seen her face look like that. He realised all at once that lives beyond his in Heaven were just as complicated as his own, if not more so. Then there was a divine hand in the air and a sharp twanging sound as a wave of energy passed by them, ruffling hair as it travelled downwards.

“Your friend, the demon, I have restored him, and you shall see him again, once you have paid your penance for your cruelty.”

***

Hastur was moping. With Beelzebub and Dagon out of the way for some fancy bollocks in Heaven, of all places, (Hastur wouldn’t be caught dead up there, horrible place, it had been bad enough seeing that wanker Michael down here a few months ago. That angel smell, it made him feel sick. How Crowley stood having meetings with that pathetic Principality he couldn’t understand. Lord Beelzebub had told him they were more than friends and he’d had to transform into a pile of maggots after just thinking about that for a moment) he was free to have a good mope without being shouted at. He’d been sad and angry since he lost his… his… whatever Ligur had been to him. Nothing soppy, that wasn’t something he was able to feel, not like that soft twat Crowley with his disgusting perversions. But Ligur, well, Ligur was clever, and ruthless and always up for a rumble, and Hastur had walked taller and felt more of a demon striding through Hell with Ligur by his side. Ligur was a fighter and a thinker and, well, yeah, of course he hated him, but he didn’t hate him in quite the same way that he hated everybody else. And that made all the difference, and he missed it. Life was shitty now, and not in a smelly, enjoyable, bad way. He dragged himself to the break room for a cup of the disgusting beverage that was neither tea nor coffee that could be had from the leaking machine there. There was a figure by the coffee maker, thumping it and swearing, a familiar shape curled upon its head. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Maybe all the moping had finally driven him round the bend. He gasped, and the other demon turned his head. Orange eyes met black.

“Ligs, that you, you old cunt you?”

“Yeah, you shitty bastard, just woke up and I was here, feel a bit weird and I can’t remember anything after the baby drop. What the fuck’s going on?”

“Oh you beauty, come here while I punch you in the face…”

If, later, two demons with black eyes and bloody noses were seen embracing deep in a service corridor of Hell, well, that was nobody’s business but their own.

***

“My penance, Lord, what shall that be?” said Michael.

“What you had in mind for Aziraphale would be fitting, I think. Demotion to Private, and some manual labour. There is an opening for someone to clear out the stables. Those great big horses take a lot of looking after. I am sure a few years shovelling will teach you some humility. When you have learned it, I shall know.”

She snapped her fingers and Michael’s uniform changed, the bright tunic encrusted with decorations being replaced with a plain one, and then she vanished. Gabriel looked at where she had been and sagged a little further towards the floor.

“Uriel, taking part in an assault upon your brother while he was trying to talk sense to you. Does the phrase ‘our job, as angels, should be to keep this all working so they can make choices’ remind you of any situation, Uriel? Hmm?”

Uriel had the good grace to look embarrassed, gazing down at her shoes.

“Don’t remember.”

“Oh really? So you didn’t say ‘you think too much’ to your brother, when he was trying to explain. Funny how it turned out that he had been right all along. No? Still don’t remember? What about going along with Michael and getting Sandalphon to punch him. Not very pleasant behaviour now, was it? Answer me, child!”

“No” said Uriel, in a very small voice.

“I accept that you were doing as directed by Michael,” She sighed, “oh my lovely Uriel, that once was so sweet. You have been easily led and failed to think for yourself. You shall be demoted to Guardian Angel and sent to work in the world until you appreciate its inhabitants better. A few assignments looking after humans should teach you some understanding. Go now.”

Uriel was standing in a white robe suddenly, and then she, too, disappeared.

“Sandalphon, I have no idea who promoted you to angel status, or what you are actually doing here at all, after everything you have done. And while I am having to speak to you, try, once you are back in your proper place as a soul, to learn about consent. Nobody wants to receive creepy pictures of your nethers.”

Sandalphon looked down at itself, and realised that it was entirely transparent. It made a face and floated over to the souls side of the amphitheatre, where several people refused to give it a seat.

“I have saved you till last Gabriel, as I feel that the severest criticism must be levelled at you.”

“No, Lord, everything I did was in Your name.”

She stared at him with a profoundly sceptical look upon Her face.

“You really do believe that, don’t you?” Her voice softened a little, “It was always about _choice_ , my child, letting the humans _choose_ their course of action. You were supposed to be part of a balance, not be competing with Beelzebub for souls like you were running some sort of profit and loss account.”

“The humans, they are just so… so flawed, imperfect. You made them and they disgust me. I don’t understand, Lord.”

“Well, my child, we have heard a lot about what disgusts you in this court today. I can’t say I am very happy about the way you see humans, and you appear to have distilled that attitude into how you treated Aziraphale because he cared for my creations, tended to them, and wanted to see them prosper. Your ideas about perfection are misplaced, nobody is perfect, that is not how any of you are made, and your desire to see that has warped your nature and resulted in suffering. Stopping angels from finding a mate and bonding in Heaven, whatever were you thinking?”

“But we had to focus on The Plan, and you were never here to ask. I used to go to the throne room, and there, only ever the empty chair.”

“Are you questioning me, Gabriel?”

“What if I am, where have you been? We missed you!”

Gabriel was crying now, fat tears rolling down his perfect cheeks, his face a mask of misery.

“If you must know, I’ve been working on my anger issues, but that is beside the point. I do feel that a deity should be able to take some time out for a little personal development without having to come back to fratricide and cruelty amongst her dear children. It is clear that in my absence, you have been allowing the power that you have to corrupt you, and I am very, very disappointed in you Gabriel. What do you have to say to me?”

The mighty Archangel hiccoughed and managed a small pout.

“I am sorry Mother.”

“It is simple, Gabriel. You are meant to love them, you forgot to do that, and you forgot to love your siblings too. You have been a poor manager and a cruel angel to your brother, and I want you to apologise to him right now.”

Gabriel looked up, his wet face clearing for a moment as he raised his voice, hopefully.

“Is that to be my punishment, Lord?”

“I cannot on this occasion afford to let this go so easily. You must atone for the way you have been running Heaven for years, oppressing your siblings and then trying to murder one of them. And that’s to say nothing about the back channels and blatant lying to the Host.”

Gabriel’s voice was a hoarse wraith of its former ebullient certainty.

“Am I to Fall then?”

“Good gracious, no, there will be no more falling. I do not wish to exercise My Wrath in that way again. And besides, your presence in Hell would cause a blatant imbalance of power that would prejudice attempts to create the harmony that creation needs. No, I am merciful and wish to offer you an opportunity to learn. But first, apologise to your brother there, and make it sincere. Don’t encourage me to be more cross than I currently am, you have ruffled my demeanour sufficiently enough with your attitude, I have laboured very hard to maintain my new approach, and I don’t want all my meditation and breathing work to be ruined in one afternoon.”

Gabriel rose from his knees and approached Aziraphale, stopping in front of him and looking him up and down, his expression flinching when he noted how the angel’s hand was wrapped firmly around the crook of Crowley’s elbow.

“I am sorry Aziraphale,” he said, not meeting the other angel’s eyes.

“You can do better than that, Gabriel, you are convincing nobody here. Tell him what you are sorry for, look him in the face and try for some true contrition, I know you can do it.”

The Voice of the Almighty was commanding, sharp, excoriating.

Gabriel placed his hands behind his back and straightened his spine. He met Aziraphale’s eyes and found the usual mild expression there, the angel had long understood that grudges held only serve to tarnish the soul of the holder. Aziraphale nodded, as if to encourage Gabriel to speak, so he did.

“I am truly sorry, for dismissing your concerns, for not listening and for, ah, well, for, erm, trying to have you killed.”

“Come on Gabe,” said Crowley, “tell it like it is, for treating him like shite, not acknowledging how good he is at his job and trying to murder him. Go on, suck it up and be a decent being, just this once.”

“Y - yes, for all of those things,” Gabriel sounded a little bit broken, “I am sorry, Aziraphale, I hope you can forgive me.”

Aziraphale was just enough of a bastard to spend a few vital seconds regarding Gabriel with eyes that were ice blue in the white surroundings of Heaven, before he relented.

“I forgive you.”

He offered a soft hand, and Gabriel took it for a short moment.

“Gabriel, come here to Me.”

Gabriel turned away from where Aziraphale, Crowley and the dog stood and walked to kneel at the feet of his Maker.

“Your penance shall be that you spend some years on the Earth learning about life there in all of its variety. Some humans choose this path, they call it the road to enlightenment. You shall start as a small creature and be reborn each time you die, in a form that will reflect how you have lived your previous life. If you follow a good path, help others, show compassion, take account of the needs of your community, you will flourish and grow. Make the right choices, and it will not take many lifetimes before you are human. Once you have lived an exemplary human life, I will allow you back into Heaven. How quickly that happens will be down to you. This will not be easy, but it will be worthwhile and at the end of it, you will be an optimum version of yourself, the way I hoped you would be when I brought you into being. Go now and ready yourself. The Lord Azrael will be along to collect you very soon.”

She stooped and kissed the crown of his head and he, too, disappeared.

Crowley nudged Aziraphale, smiling into his face as he stroked the dog, which was leaning against his legs again and looking up at him with canine adoration.

“Karma’s a bitch, eh angel?”

“ _Crowley_ ,” said Aziraphale , attempting to be stern, but his heart wasn’t in it, and he smiled at his friend with just as much love and admiration as the dog was emanating.

“Raphael.”

Raphael had been watching proceedings with interest and was looking across at the Host as they reacted to the upbraiding of each of the Angelic Council in turn, noting with enjoyment the pleasure on the faces of their fellow angels as they realised that they were to be allowed to openly display love and affection for those closest to them for the first time in aeons. Having not been in Heaven for so long, they were not expecting to be spoken to at this point, and their head whipped round when they heard their name being called.

“Yes, Mother?”

“You have been away too long from Heaven. Now is your chance to make amends for that. You will take up the reins of governance here. Your first task will be to see that the fractures that have been caused by previous, let’s call them, management failures, are repaired and compensation and apologies offered to those who have been damaged. It is time for old injustices to be redressed. You have special attributes as a healer that should make doing this second nature to you. You have been idle, little one, and it is time now for you to get to work.”

“I think I can manage that. In fact, I would quite like to do it. Thank you Mother.”

They bowed their head in acceptance.

“I am pleased to hear it. Appoint whomsoever you need, form a new Council and see to it that these abuses do not happen again.”

“Beelzebub, Dagon, return to Hell and be prepared to open negotiations with Raphael about bringing together people who lost friends because of the Fall. I would have those who are bereft find some peace after what has happened. It may be possible for demons and angels who wish it to have these relationships openly, if both parties are agreeable. Be sure to keep an open mind. Above all, do your jobs, and _don’t meddle_.”

The two senior demons nodded, turned, arm in arm, and vanished, leaving a puff of smoke and a lingering scent of sulphur behind them. The Erics remained glued to each side of Anpiel, her wings now loosely wrapped around their shoulders. Plans had been made to visit Earth for ice cream, once the trial was officially over and they could get away. They remained together happily, Anpiel feeling that she might, for once, have found something she could have just for herself, and the Erics not able to believe their good fortune at having met this miniature goddess.

She was changing again as She walked to stand in front of Her wayward cherub and rebellious demon. Now she was a stately figure, radiating light as she neared what might be perceived as Her True Form, although it was a tiny fraction of what She really is, spread out as She always has to be, through all dimensions and across every reality. She was all glory, love and splendour as she smiled upon two of her favourite children.

“Crowley, Aziraphale, you have been through much. I wish to say this, before you take your leave. You are free now to seek your own destinies, free to live where it suits you and be to each other whatever it is that you choose between yourselves. I am going to send you somewhere peaceful to be together for a while. I make no strictures, and give no guidance, because I want you to find what it is you both want without constraints, after all you have suffered. The only thing I will offer to you is a hint. I have watched you together, hoping you would find each other, I have seen how your situations have hurt both of you, and how you have sometimes hurt each other. Now, please, talk honestly together. You may find it hard, given the way time and circumstances have made you, but try. And one last decree, if you will allow me. Look within yourselves, see what you have made, and always, always, follow your hearts. Go with My love, both of you.”

She snapped what might roughly have been called Her fingers, and angel, demon and dog vanished from the court room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I firmly believe that there would have to be dogs (and cats, and birds too) in Heaven, if there is such a place. The dog here is a manifestation of love, sent to comfort our Ineffable Husbands. It is a Heavenly creature, without gender. I kind of see it as being just being past the puppy stage with (for Heaven) slight behavioural problems that mean that it requires an understanding home, which it will get once they have named it. So, yeah, it’s really a rescue dog, the best dogs often are. Adopt don’t shop, people!


	24. Hello. Hello. We won. I know, darling.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It ends, where it began, as a couple of supernatural beings have some time to decompress and, sort of … actually talk about things? Although perhaps actions speak louder than words.
> 
> We find out the fate of the Metatron and other miscreants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is finally finished! I can hardly believe I have actually got here. There will be a couple of epilogue chapters as I find I want to write about how my OC angels get on. There will be visits to Earth, a wedding, and some non-binary big frock shopping.
> 
> Thanks go also to my very lovely Beta [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) for all she has done in helping and supporting me. Go read her awesome Mini Bang fic with stunning art [A mighty flame followeth a tiny spark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25166653/chapters/60985312)
> 
> Thanks also to my friends who have been an inspiration and a huge support to me [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) and [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds) you people are the very best!
> 
> Note, a P45 form is what we in the UK get when we leave a job, it has become shorthand for getting dismissed. I changed it to an A45 for the Metatron.

The Metatron was in his office, having taken off his ceremonial robes and put on a comfortable silk dressing gown that he liked to wear on his days off, he sat with his feet up on his desk, idly throwing darts at the picture of Azazel that he kept on his pin board just for that purpose. He had transported himself away from the court amphitheatre with a quick miracle as soon as Crowley had been secured, keen to avoid the fallout from how he had decided to interpret the brusque instructions he had received to end the trial proceedings and move to ask the jury for their verdict.

It was the first time in ages he had received anything at all from Higher Up and it had come as a shock to him when the golden scroll had materialised on his desk. He was so used to doing the bidding of Gabriel and Michael that it had felt strange to be on the receiving end of instructions from Her. He was content that his interpretation of the command had been the righteous way to conduct proceedings, being very much of the view that the renegade angel and demon should be punished for their actions, and he leaned back with the sense of a job well done as he contemplated the end result of how he had handled things. The angel could go back to doing the Lord’s work on Earth and the vile demon was out of the way. Job done. He sighed and reached for his flask of ambrosia, time for a snifter and then he would possibly have a little nap, dispensing disapproving looks really took it out of a being.

There was a sharp knock on the door, and Dabriel, from Angelic Resources, came into the room, bearing a clipboard.

“Enoch, I’ve been tasked with delivering this.”

She passed him an envelope.

“It’s your A45. I’ve to wait here while you clear your desk and then I am to escort you to the City of Heaven where your new quarters await you.”

Enoch choked on his ambrosia, spitting it out with such force that it spattered all over his gold pen and pencil set and magnetic kinetic sculpture stress toy on his desk.

“W-what, I, I, I. What is the meaning of this?” he said, in tones of haughty outrage, their impact lessened by his spluttering.

“Says here,” said Dabriel, looking down at the form in front of her, “you have been weighed in the balance and found wanting. Ahhhm, let’s see now, flagrant abuse of office, blah, blah, blah, ah yes, to be demoted to soul status, starting immediately. Apparently quarters have been prepared for you with your brother, Elijah. He was demoted just now, at the trial.”

“What?”

“Yeah, didn’t you hear? It’s all over Heaven, She turns up, with the demon Crowley in tow, exonerates Aziraphale and punishes all of the Archangels. It’s all anyone’s talking about. You should’ve stayed and she prob’ly would’ve told you all this Herself. You’ve missed her though. She sent off the pair of them somewhere to be _alone,”_ she winked suggestively at him at this point, “and went off straight afterwards, said she had a hot yoga class she didn’t want to miss. Come on then, I haven’t got all day, Raphie wants a meeting with us all in just over half an hour.”

“Give me that paper!”

She handed it over and waited while he read through it. It was true, there in gold and white. He was to be a mere soul again, worse than that, he was to live with his odious brother. He looked down at his hands, he had become transparent, there was no sense of a link to Her anymore and the familiar weight of the wings on his back had gone. He was no longer an angel. There was little time for grief and regret, that would come later, now Dabriel was shoving a box into his unresisting arms and speaking to him through his haze of shock and disbelief.

“Here’s your box, Enoch, take what you need and let’s get going. You should be thinking yourself lucky. Apparently, Gabriel’s been sent down to the Earth as some kind of really small worm. Ewwwww.”

***

It was warm beneath his feet, warmer than he could attribute to anything he had been experiencing over the last few hours in his standard issue uniform shoes and spats. He looked down, his feet were bare and the heat was radiating from the sunbaked stone beneath them. He flexed his toes, enjoying the comfort of the feeling in his human corporation. His eyes moved up, ankles, then the start of calves up to where the skin disappeared beneath the pure white of a robe, decorated along the sides and up the sleeves with complex sigils in thread of gold. He knew this, remembered it, he’d worn it for years until it had become quite threadbare. After that, he had bought clothes made the human way, as people started to flourish and move away from where the Garden had once stood after it had been hidden. They congregated and grouped together in settlements, towns, and eventually, cities, on the planet, proliferating and learning new skills with the avid greed for knowledge that had been their gift from the Serpent of Eden. He had always loved the woven fabrics they created, enjoying the feel of them between his fingers as he spoke with the vendor and haggled for the requisite time expected about prices. Aziraphale smoothed his hands down the robe, first his sides, then his stomach. It was so very good to be back in his original form, with its soft middle. He cradled it for a moment, feeling the weight of it against him. It was such a satisfying feeling, coming back to himself and knowing that at long last, after everything, he was free.

He looked across at the endless rolling dunes in front of him and then to his left, to see the figure that he had somehow expected to be there. He was just as stunning, equally as beautiful as he had been that first day when he had turned his head and caught sight of a transformation from serpentine being into something vivid, the richness of his colours stark against the green hues of the garden behind him. They smiled at each other, hesitantly. After their long separation and the stresses of the trial, which, with its revelations and confessions, had been a strain for both of them, they were both tired, and, he realised, both a little shy at being alone together again so suddenly. It was a dear face though, and after such a long time apart, relief flooded through him as he felt his left hand being caught and gathered up, those slim fingers winding through his broader ones, their palms resting together.

“Hello there, angel. Here we are again. She does have a very peculiar sense of what is fitting, doesn’t She?”

“I suppose, well, that She just wanted to give us some time.”

They stood there, side by side, looking out as they had that first day but this time they were joined together in mind and body. Crowley felt the warmth of Aziraphale’s hand in his and gave it the smallest hint of a squeeze. Aziraphale glanced sideways at him briefly and a tinge of pink appeared across his cheeks. He smiled a closed lipped smile of pleasure and continued to look forward, squinting a little in the bright sunshine.

“Remembering, angel?”

Crowley’s voice was warm and Aziraphale felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude that this was the being who had been his companion, through everything, right from the beginning. He was glad She had brought them here, She must have understood how restorative it would be for him to have this with Crowley.

“Yes, darling Crowley. In some ways it feels just like yesterday, in others, such a long time ago.”

There was a beat and then he spoke again, saying what had just been in his mind, his light voice filled with sweetness.

“I’m glad, so glad it was you, that day.”

They stood like that for a long while, holding together in the comfort of their long-established companionship, happy to just be with each other for a while. Time appeared to stand still for them and they both resided there, thinking of very little. Once they were both settled in to the silence, Crowley broke it to speak.

“It seems, from what She said, that She wants us to talk - to each other, I mean, about… _things_.”

“We’ve never been very good at that, have we? Talking, about…”

“About things, no.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and looked down at his feet once more. He felt deep shame. He was painfully aware that when it came to it, he was the one of them least able to express his emotions freely. After centuries of thinking that there was something intrinsically amiss in his nature, he had developed a habitual dichotomy of thought between the knowledge of what should be proper for him as an angel to think and do, and what actually motivated his thoughts and actions, keeping the latter hidden deep within his mind while speaking habitually as if he was following the diktat of the former. This dislocation of thought had caused him no little unhappiness over the years as he struggled to manage the resulting discrepancy, and as things had transpired at the notional End Times, he was aware that Crowley had been on the receiving end of the very worst that this tendency made him capable of. Aziraphale found himself now in the position where he felt he must make very sincere amends for these failings. Despite having his recent suffering relieved, he still laboured under the distress that the urgent desire to do so was bringing him. He could only hope that the recent revelations they had both been gifted with would eventually allow him to be more honest with his companion, no, his _love_ , as to how very deep his affections for Crowley went and how long he had held them close within his being. He was keen to believe that such honesty might make it easier for him to make up for what he had said and done on those last few days before he was discorporated. As it was, while these uncomfortable thoughts and feelings were whirling around his mind, in their usually panicky flight, it was Crowley who made the first move to speak on the subject, as was typical of him

“Did you mean it, Aziraphale, everything you said back there? I… I’d like to be sure, before I…”

Aziraphale turned so that he was facing Crowley and took his other hand, gripping both and pulling Crowley a little nearer. His face creased, anxiously.

“Of course I did, I was under _oath_.”

“Of course you were, maybe I shouldn’t have asked.”

Crowley sighed, and dropped his shoulders, his hands moving in Aziraphale’s grip as if he was about to turn away. Aziraphale increased the pressure of his fingers on the demon's hands and tugged on them gently to keep him still, speaking again.

“My dearest… _Crowley_ , it wasn’t just because of that… oh blast, _why_ do I always do this?”

He raised his eyes to Crowley’s and locked his cornflower blue gaze with the marigold eyes in his view, speaking slowly and deliberately, hoping he could weight the words with all the love that was flowering in the centre of him.

“I meant every word. I know I have said things in the past, told some quite dreadful lies, and I…”

Crowley could see what was coming, and he wanted to avoid it, head it off, if at all possible. Once Aziraphale started apologizing, he knew, it was likely to go on for a very long time, the angel’s sense of guilt having been honed over the years through repeated mistreatment by his Heavenly supervisors. He had seen how wretched and conflicted the angel could become, spiraling into self-hatred so easily, and however much he might appreciate hearing of his friend’s contrition, he didn’t need it here and now. There would be time for that later, now, for once, he just wanted to console, to allow them both some space to help each other, to heal. They had been through so much together, he had seen and heard enough for now, so he reached out to sooth those ruffled feathers, to be kinder here than they were usually ever able to be with each other.

“There’s no need, angel, I don’t need apologies after all you’ve been through.”

“No Crowley, I want - _I need_ to, I - I’ve been doing so much thinking and there are things I really should tell - explain…”

Aziraphale’s cheeks were fully pink now, and his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. Crowley heard his voice rising in pitch, the angel seemingly unable to prevent his distress from spilling into it

“… I’ve been such a bad friend to you…”

Whatever else he had been going to say was lost in a choked sob. Crowley raised their joined hands and pulled them together so that they were standing chest to chest, with just the width of their linked fingers between them. His eyes were fully their luminous honey amber as he met the anxious blue of the angel’s gaze, his voice as kind as it had been at the Tadfield bus stop, all those months ago.

“Hey, angel, none of that. It’s okay, I don’t need any of it, don’t upset yourself. You’ve said more than enough, been through more than enough. Come here, silly angel.”

He released Aziraphale’s hands and pulled him into an embrace, one long arm warm about the angel’s shoulders, the other cradling his head, fingers teasing through the curls above his nape. Aziraphale hesitantly wound his arms about the demon’s waist and with a little sigh, tucked his head into the space between his shoulder and his neck. It felt like home, the warmth of his slender frame and Crowley’s comforting smell, like ripe apples and new leather with a spicy top note of autumn bonfires that was all the demon’s own. There was a space and then Crowley was murmuring close, his breath warm in the angel’s ear.

“I’m liking this hair angel, ’s pretty. You’ve no idea the shock I got when I saw you there at first.”

Aziraphale gulped down his tears and managed to speak, his voice thick.

“Um, y-yes, they shaved it off, it was all part of my…my humiliation I suppose… You… you think it’s, pretty, Crowley?”

“Mmmyeah, ‘ve always sort of liked it, hated seeing you without it, ’s what I mean, don’t get all smug about it now”

“I would never dream of it. Besides, if we are to speak of hair, I’ve always loved yours so much,” Aziraphale lifted a hand and gently smoothed the curls resting on Crowley’s back, “it’s lovely to see it long again, dear, not that I minded it short, of course.”

“You like my hair then, angel?”

“I like all of you, Crowley, your hair, your beautiful eyes, those cheekbones, your big heart and clever mind…” there was a pause and a sigh and then he spoke again, his voice lower than before, “I love everything about you, you must know that.”

Crowley brought his hand from Aziraphale’s hair and placed his arm below the other one on the angel’s back, squeezing him gently, feeling him melt into the embrace. It felt so good to have him in his arms, real and pliant against him. He revelled in the solid strength of him and his softness. Crowley never wanted to let him go again.

“Same, angel.”

It was all he could manage in that moment, without making an utter fool of himself. Whatever She might have suggested, demons did not allow themselves to be overcome with emotion, nor did they get all tearful over their angel companions, and he was a demon, so he didn’t have tears in his eyes, not at all. He felt Aziraphale shake slightly in his arms and became aware of dampness against his shoulder.

Aziraphale, with his eyes closed, surrendered to the undeniable bliss of being held, the supple loveliness of the demon’s waist under his hands and warm breath against the side of his face. Tears leaked from his eyes and he was powerless to stop them. They needed to talk, and they would do so, but in this moment, this communication between their human bodies was exquisite and all the happiness he had ever craved was here.

They held each other like that for a long while, both content to be with each other in this liminal space for some time, together once again on the walls of Eden.

Elsewhere, the world span on. People lived and died. The sun rose again, the beauty and terror of living continued. In Heaven, angels sang and held meetings and long buried feelings were spoken of. Things were better now: for the first time since the Fall, love flourished once again.

***

The former Archangel Uriel stirred her coffee with a lacklustre hand. She had no intention of actually consuming it, she just knew that she needed to purchase something to allow her to be in this space. She was bored. She’d pressured her supervisor into letting her skip the induction course and orientation meetings, insisting instead on being given a mission straightaway. The person she had been assigned had been easy to find, and had latched on to her with an embarrassing neediness when she had contrived to meet them in the public space the humans called a ‘Shopping Mall’. Now the human woman was talking about her troubled relationship with a human man, not present. It would seem that the male human was less than optimal in just about every aspect of his behaviour.

“… thirteen years we’d been together, then I lost the baby and he comes over and tells me he’s been seeing his ex-wife all this time, cool as you like. I’ve never been so upset and humiliated…”

Uriel interrupted the flow, having had quite enough of listening to this human moaning on.

“Well, dear,” she’d been told to show empathy, surely this term of approbation, used widely by the erstwhile Principality, would do to satisfy that requirement, “you know he’s a bastard, this boyfriend, so, now he’s gone, isn’t it time you just pulled yourself together and got on with your life, hmm? Time to stop feeling sorry for yourself and move on? Other people have worse problems than you do, you know.”

Unaccustomed to the nuances of human communication, and too arrogant to find out about it, Uriel had no idea that she was being deeply patronising.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am sorry, is your hearing deficient? Perhaps I should be signing as well, should I?”

Now she just sounded sarcastic. The woman stood up and pulled her jacket off the back of her chair.

“There’s no need to be so rude! I am sorry I wasted your time. Have a nice life.”

Fiona walked swiftly out of the cafe, tears forming in her eyes, the smartly dressed woman she had just met had initially seemed so _nice_ , so concerned. Happily, her best mate who had been in the bath when she had called earlier, answered her phone now. The two met that evening and put the world to rights over pizza and wine, and they agreed that all men were bastards and hugged over a litre of Haagen Dazs chocolate peanut butter. Uriel snapped herself back to Heaven and was met by a very angry Guardian Angel Liaison Officer. It was clear that further training was required, and that there was a very long road ahead before this newest staff member was likely to be of any use to anyone at all.

***

Gabriel was aware that he had changed shape, he was smaller and much thinner. He had been warned when he had met with Azrael that the shock of the change might be severe. He had lain still for a while, then become aware of the presence of other beings just like him. He expected he would soon be able to work out what their political system was, then make his way to the top of it. They were an idle lot, needed a bit of discipline, it would be up to an exemplary worm such as himself to get them sorted out. He was sure that they would recognise his potential, as soon as he made himself known to them. It was only a matter of time.

***

As the sun slanted across the tree canopy and its refracted light sparkled in the streams and waterfalls of the perfect garden, two shapes wheeled in the air and landed softly on the greensward. An angel and a demon walked barefoot on the grass they found there hand in hand, marvelling at how beautiful everything was, the first to set foot upon its sacred ground for more than six thousand years. Crowley broke away to look at plants, armed with all the horticultural knowledge of his long life. He was soon shouting out Latin names and telling Aziraphale where he had seen them on his travels around the world. It was not long before they were joined by the dog. It appeared behind them and trotted up, greeting first Crowley and then Aziraphale with fervent wagging of its tail that extended to its entire body and then whines and licks to their hands.

Aziraphale followed his demon, admiring the plants he was shown, his robe held out in front of him gathering a little harvest as he came across trees and bushes heavy with fruit. There was a remembrance of the first tastes he had ever taken, his delight in juices fresh and sweet against his tongue, the textures falling crisp or soft into his mouth as he bit into them. After long months of the bland food of Heaven, the fruits of Earth were vivid, sparking his senses into a renewed appreciation of Gaia’s bounty. Here and there he paused, turning to tug at Crowley’s robe, offering up the ripest and best of what he found to his partner who took them from the angel’s fingers, smiling at him fondly. Nothing changed Aziraphale, an epicure to the end.

He rolled a dark berry between his fingers, its purple juice staining their tips.

“Bramble,” he said

“You what?” said Crowley.

“A name, for the dog. Bramble. It’s dark and shiny like their fur.”

“You’re keeping it then?”

“Well, yes, I thought _we_ would, as She seems to have given it to us. Do you not…?”

Ah, how Crowley rejoiced at the ‘we’ in that sentence. Their dog. Their future. With a dog in it. Perfect.

“I do, I thought you wouldn’t want to, but, yeah, I’d like that, angel. Bramble, yeah, that’ll do, nice gender neutral name, suits them.”

Bramble meandered along ahead of them, sniffing at everything they came to that showed promise. They were aware that they had been named, and it was fine, they would get used to it. These were their new companions, they smelled good and they were kind. Bramble huffed and panted, they hoped there would be games, and nice things to eat and a fireside. They suspected, looking at the pair of supernatural beings and seeing two different kinds of softness, that there might well be access to sofas, and, if they could swing it, a bed, and happiness, there would be lots of it, they were very sure of that part of the deal.

Neither angel nor demon had appreciated it before, but there was an area for every environmental condition on the planet, here, in the garden. It contained the potential for everything that had ever grown around the globe, a whole world in microcosm. As they walked they brought the knowledge of their lives to what they saw around them, and experienced the riches of Eden anew, with their understanding as their guide. So it was for them that Paradise, lost to them once, was finally regained.

They whiled away all the time they needed, lingering in beautiful spots, running their hands through streams and drinking the cool water, stroking moss and grasses, smelling the flowers. Crowley found an excellent stick, and they spent some time throwing it for Bramble, sending the animal running eagerly for it and watching as they took all the joy a dog feels in returning it faithfully to one or other of the man shaped beings. At one point, a small green parrot landed on Aziraphale’s outstretched hand and he crooned to it, telling it how beautiful it was. It regarded him with a curious eye, head on one side as if considering him and finding him worthy. Then it took off with a musical chuckle and a whirr of wings, and whirled into the halcyon of the sky above the garden.

Aziraphale took some time to weave a circle from some long grasses he had found, thinking back to the last time he had done this, one for him and one for Eve. They had laughed together at their headgear, and talked, until his guilt at leaving his post had overcome him, and he had left her and returned to his lonely vigil. Now he made the same circlet, twisting the tough stems and weaving the ends together. Then he gathered the flowers he wanted, picking them as he walked, tucking blooms into the small wreath until it was resplendent with a multitude of colours, the flower shapes massed around it obscuring the twisted green their stems lay within. He carried it with him as he strolled along behind the demon, spotting a sturdy tree and turning his steps towards it to take a seat in its shade. He placed the flossy crown by his side and called to Crowley ahead of him who was busy glaring at some tall flowers.

“Crowley, dear, I would like to catch my breath a moment, would you sit with me?”

“Yeah, okay, anything you like, angel.”

The demon lowered his body, folding his long limbs to seat himself next to his angel, reclining languidly as was his way, making himself comfortable on the mossy grass there, which released a subtle fragrance as they disturbed it with the pressure of their bodies. The dog sauntered up behind them and lay itself down by Crowley, licking its paw for a moment and then settling itself to doze, tired after its exploits in the garden. Aziraphale sat straight backed and cleared his throat in a meaningful way.

“My dear, I would like to tell you… No, no that won’t do. I - I… oh dear, I am so _very_ bad at this.”

He fiddled with the sleeve of his robe, and Crowley could see he was becoming prey to his own anxiety, thoughts threatening to overwhelm him.

“If it’s any help to you, angel, I’m finding all this pretty hard to deal with, everything we’ve been told, what She said to us, and the whole thought of being given _permission_. It’s been a lot. When She was with me, I felt like my brain was going to, y’know, _melt_ or something.”

“Oh, _yes_ , I confess I was most flustered. Not to say that it wasn’t reassuring, but, as you say, a lot.”

He thought for a while and then leaned forward, tentatively, holding his hand palm out towards Crowley.

“Perhaps it might be easier, if I showed you?”

His voice was a plea, and Crowley smiled when he heard it, inclining his head and raising an interrogative eyebrow.

“Oh, nothing like that, you salacious serpent… But, may I touch you, would you mind?”

“Uh, yeah, go on then.”

The demon nodded his assent, seeing the sincerity of the other’s expression, and the love that rested there alongside that endearing, anxious frown. Aziraphale shuffled forward and laid his hand flat against Crowley’s chest, feeling the human heart beneath his palm speed up slightly at the contact. They regarded each other, faces open and receptive, their very closeness heady to both of them. They were aware that they stood on the very brink of something that would change everything between them. Aziraphale caught himself staring at Crowley’s mouth, licked his own lips and flicked his eyes upwards, finding the words he needed to say.

“I became aware, while I was alone, that I am connected to you in some way. It took me quite a while to understand what it was, but after a time, I realised that I can sense it when you are near me, and I felt it, when your memories were returned, it was like a jolt here,” he tapped his middle finger against Crowley’s sternum, “right by my heart, like I had a thread tied to my ribs, and you were pulling on it. Can you sense it, or is it just me?”

Crowley closed his eyes, and felt into his chest, beneath where the angel’s warm palm rested. He could feel it, had been able to for a while, a thread of connection, the cause of the fluttering he had been experiencing, on and off, for months.

“It was you, wasn’t it,” he murmured, “keeping me awake with all that bloody poetry, and the memories, that was all you.”

“Yes, my darling, I expect it was. I remembered things to keep myself from losing my mind in the Void and then I had to drill you see, fly up and down, and I recited poetry to avert the tedium and keep myself from despair, and I played back all the memories I had of the times I spent with you.”

“Remind me never to read any Eliot, angel, miserable bastard.”

“Ah, I am sorry, I was quite wretched at that time, I do apologise for inflicting that on you. He’s rather to my taste, I find, sometimes, at least.”

“You would, angel, right up your alley.”

“He was one of the foremost modernists, dear, an innovator…”

“Yeah, well, that’s as may be, but can we get back to what we’re doing here?”

“Oh, forgive me, Crowley, but you would distract me with literary matters.”

“ ’S nothing new, angel. Do your thing, go on.”

Aziraphale took an unnecessary breath and opened his heart, laying down the walls within which he had constricted all those inconvenient feelings that had thrilled and frightened him through the ages, right back to the beginning.

Crowley felt the weight of Aziraphale’s hand on his chest, and tensed, his eyes closed but a part of him elsewhere remained alert, waiting, expectant, for what was to come.

There was something about being with Crowley in the garden where it had all begun that made this easier for Aziraphale, the rightness of it overwhelming. He released the weight of his love and it poured through the connection, lighting it up as it came.

“ _Here. Here I am, beloved_.”

Crowley felt the hand on his chest grew warm, then hot as the energy flowed into him. He exulted in it, seeing it, feeling it, all the _love_. It was so much bigger than he could have imagined, so much more, so very bright. He had not understood how all-encompassing it was. It lit him up, filled him, nourished him as the angel’s smiles had always soothed him. He saw and felt it, and awed, he answered with his own, knowing he could do this now, as love matched love, in balance and in harmony.

“ _Angel, you, only you, always_.”

The angel felt the impact of the demon’s affection, his love, his fidelity, his constancy, something shared with none other, something old. Unfettered it was boundless, generous, warm, soft and endlessly vulnerable. He was humbled by it, it was beautiful and it sated him, filled his senses, left him replete.

Aziraphale opened the many eyes of his true self and found what he knew was Crowley waiting there for him. He bloomed, unfolding like a flower, blazing, an effulgence of brilliance, fuelled by love, tolerance, friendship. It glistened and pulsed and cried out wordlessly for an answer, an inverse echo of itself. He could see Crowley answering this call with his own true form, the power of it blooming like a dark gout of ink in water, billowing towards him, striated with flashes of red light veining through it, the heart of it a smouldering power, ancient and fathomless.

They didn’t mingle, each merely witnessed the presence of the other, knowing such an all-consuming ecstasy awaited them, given time, but not yet, not yet. It would keep, till they were ready for such things. The yearning that they felt towards each other was a promise of their mutual potential, for this and other, more human closeness they could have, as and when they chose. Anything was possible for them now they truly had each other, now they were together.

They bent their forms towards each other, touching lightly, and withdrew. Opening their eyes simultaneously, they found their wondering faces wet with tears, brimming over and spilling down their cheeks. Aziraphale, his face wreathed in sunshine, took his hand away from Crowley’s chest and lifted the flower crown, stretched and placed it on Crowley’s head, where it nestled amongst his curls making him look like a painting, the flowers vibrant against his russet hair, his pale skin luminous, beautiful and splendid in his dark robes.

“You really are a picture, love,” said Aziraphale, coy eyes admiring the demon in front of him, and a deep crimson blush was added to the palette of colours in the pretty display.

“Gnnnh,” said Crowley.

“Quite so, my dear one,” said Aziraphale. He got up and moved to sit with his back against the tree trunk and looked across at Crowley, opening his arms and speaking softly.

“Would you sit with me, my Crowley?”

Crowley smiled, nodded and took his place within the embrace of those arms, seating himself between the angel’s thighs and leaning back against the warm solidity of his torso. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s chest, holding him carefully, feeling the curve of the demon’s spine against the gentle rise of his soft belly, and Crowley laid his head back against the angel’s shoulder. They settled naturally, bodies moulding into each other as if they had been fashioned to fit together. After everything She had told them, perhaps that had been the truth of the matter all along. Aziraphale manifested all his wings, wrapping the lower pair around Crowley’s hips to cradle them, folding the upper pair lightly around them both as they lay together quietly. There was no more need of words just then. Birds sang and they could hear the sound of water and the little snuffing noises Bramble made in his sleep.

Crowley closed his eyes as Aziraphale placed gentle fingers under his jaw and drew a careful thumb along his cheek, stroking his smooth skin lovingly. He felt safe, secure, cared for, and the voices in his head ceased their incessant nagging, leaving him a silent space in which he could allow the feeling of being loved to enter into him. The fragrance from the flowers drifted between them, mingling with the angel’s scent and his own. It felt for a moment as if this was a paradise created just for the two of them. Old hurts were soothed and the endless, age-old differences between them melted away for a time. It was a perfect balance of joy and felicity, each giving and receiving exactly what they needed.

Crowley, curious Crowley, asker of questions, broke the silence to put another to his friend and soulmate.

“What do you want, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale, ever the angel to consider and formulate a careful response, took his time before answering, the warm and drowsy air, filled with the hum of insects, drifting over them for a space. He took a breath and began to speak, putting aside his habitual nervousness, emboldened by having Crowley in his arms at last and the fact that the demon did not have to see the rush of pink covering his face and ears as he unburdened his heart of its innermost desires.

“Do you remember,” he said, finally, “the conversation we had that day here, just after I met you, about the difference between what I ought to do, and what I wanted to do?”

“Yeah, angel, I remember that, I even dreamed about it once. I used to dream of you, angel, even when I couldn’t remember, I just didn’t know it at the time.”

“Oh, darling, that’s so romantic!”

“Nggggh, less of that, angel, carry on with what you were saying before you decided to get so disgustingly soppy.”

“Well, it is,” he smiled, delighted into the hair below him, placing a kiss upon the demon’s brow, “anyway, that conversation. That’s what my whole life has been like, really, when you get right down to it. What I want? Well, you, to begin with, that’s the most important thing. After that, I want to do what I like.”

“Thought you always did, angel.”

“No, I didn’t, that’s the thing. Oh yes, I did things I shouldn’t, I ate, took pleasure in music, collected material things, all the actions I was constantly derided for, by those whom I answered to, up there, you know. But I never did what I wanted, not really. I did what I was told, and sneaked other things into my life where I could. And through it all, Crowley, I felt ashamed, and guilty and frightened, all the time. Ashamed of helping people as individuals, when I was told to see the bigger picture, ashamed of loving everything too much, ashamed, always ashamed, of loving you, and fearful about it too. The fear I felt overwhelmed me, not just for myself, but for you. Don’t pretend you didn’t feel it too, you asked me for holy water, for goodness sake, you knew what they would have done if they’d found out about our… relationship.”

“Oh, it’s a relationship now is it?”

“Don’t tease me, serpent, you know very well what I mean. You asked me what I want, so I’ll tell you. I want to be free to choose what I like,” he tightened his arms about Crowley for a moment, “because I will always choose you, and the Earth and the people on it, and the animals and plants, all of it. I want to walk barefoot on the grass and have the freedom to love however I want. And I want to look after you, and people and all the other things. I was created to love, and then told to guard, it’s what I am made for, but I want to choose how I do it, do you see? You said we were on our own side, that’s what I want, our side, if you’ll still have me, that is.”

Crowley was more than a little overwhelmed by all of this. He, too, was glad he was facing away from his angel’s face as his cheeks grew heated with his feelings. It was so good to hear Aziraphale say the words he had been longing to hear for most of his life, hear his voice, honest and open. It engendered a response in him that was free from his usual cynicism. It was safe for him, on this occasion, to be honest himself in the newfound knowledge that his feelings were going to be reciprocated, that for the first time ever, Aziraphale was going to meet him halfway.

“Course I’ll still have you, angel, it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“And what would you like, my dearest, now that we may choose it?”

“Apart from a stuffy angel who likes tea and tartan and is hopelessly out of date, you mean?”

“Well, really! Tartan is…”

“Stylish, yeah, you said.”

This earned him a huff and another kiss, on his cheek this time. Delighted with this, and slightly appalled at himself for it, Crowley continued to speak.

“I’d like a garden, ‘ve always wanted one,” he gestured to the wonders that surrounded them, “and time to be normal, you know, trips to the beach and lazy mornings and meals out, and if you promise never to repeat this to anyone, I want to share all that with you, to be around for you, make you happy, all that soppy stuff. I want that, and what you said too, the Earth and all the kingdoms thereof, you know.”

Hearing this made the angel feel so much joy expanding in his heart, that he thought he might burst from it if he didn’t say something to the point directly.

“Crowley, my own heart’s darling, I love you so very much and I want to tell you that every day, for the rest of eternity.”

“Love you too, Aziraphale, always have.”

“Shall we try then, dearest heart, give it a go? You know I’ll be insufferable and drive you up the wall.”

“I know it angel, and I’ll be grumpy and difficult and snap at you all the time.”

“It sounds wonderful, my darling, I can’t wait.”

“Me too angel, me too.”

Aziraphale lowered his chin to look down at the flower decked head beneath him just as Crowley tilted his face and looked up. Their eyes met, Crowley’s expression was relaxed, his eyes bright and so full of love, it radiated from him. Aziraphale wondered how he had never noticed it before and realised he had always made a point of never looking properly.

“I’d like to… May I…?”

“Go on angel, spit it out, just tell me what you want, for once.”

“May I kiss you, my dear?”

“Eurgh, right, yeah, I mean, yeah, ‘course you can, angel.”

He hoped his eyes said everything he felt as he dipped his head, Crowley raised his and they brought their mouths together. The kiss was a mere press of lips, sweet and soft and over in a fleeting moment, but to both of them it felt as if the world had ended and been made anew. They pulled apart for a moment, rearranged their bodies closer, wrapping their arms about each other and gave it another try. After some negotiation as to where their noses went and no little laughter, they were able to express some of the fervour they both felt, mapping their desire with soft responses and encouragements until they were both breathless, as their bodies responded to this earthly way of showing love. Then they settled together again, the demon with his head in the angel’s lap, flower crown removed and set aside, and Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair and scratched gently over his scalp, quoting poetry in a low voice until the demon fell asleep. They remained like that until the shadows lengthened in the garden and twilight made the air grainy, the sky above them purple, the setting sun leaving an orange glow streaked with fire on the western horizon. Aziraphale bent to wake his partner and they stood, taking each other’s hands.

“I’d like to go home now,” Aziraphale looked skyward, “if that’s possible, please.”

“Yeah, back to London, if we could,” said Crowley.

There was a blink, and they were outside the Heavenly and Infernal Office building on a London side street. Aziraphale was relieved to find himself in his customary cashmere coat and trousers, worn waistcoat wrapped around his middle, bow tie neat at his throat, fob watch in its place. Crowley too was his usual impeccably dressed self, skintight jeans, silk shirt, waistcoat and jacket all as he habitually wore them. There was a small clap of thunder and they were joined by the dog, Bramble, who cantered out of nothing and ran between them, stopping when they reached Crowley’s side.

“You can stay at my place, if you like, angel.”

“Yes, yes please, if I may, just till we sort out what we want to do, for our future, darling.”

Aziraphale wound his arm around Crowley’s waist, the demon looping his around the angel’s shoulders, and they walked together into the London night, the dog at their heels.

_After all, your soul will still surrender,_

_After all, don't doubt your part,_

_Be ready to be loved_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has continued to read through this monster. I am so pleased that you have been here, love and hugs to every one of you I only intended it to be 8 chapters long initially, but I got carried away…. I hope it has ended satisfactorily for everyone. Please do let me know what you think.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter titles are taken from the dialogue of the film. It's a wonderful film, do check it out.


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